UC-NRLF 


I    PUT    MY    ARMS    AROCND    HER.' 


[See  Page  470 


A. 


BY 

CONSTANCE  FENBIORE  WOOLSON 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  C.  S.  RE1NHART 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRAXKLIX   SQUARE 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1882,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

.    .    All  right*  resierv$<£     ; 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"I  PUT  MY  ARMS  ROUND  HER" Frontispiece. 

' '  THE  GIRL  PAUSED  AND  REFLECTED  A  MOMENT"  .  To  face  Page  18 

"AS   SHE   BENT   OVER   THE   OLD  VOLUME" 42 

LOIS   HlNSDALE o 62 

"AND    IT    ENDED    IN    THEIR    RACING   DOWN    TO 
GETHER"  84 

"  ALARMED,  HE  BENT  OVER  HER" 104 

"  SHE   SAT  THERE  HIGH  IN  THE  AlR  WHILE  THE 

STEAMER  BACKED  OUT  FROM  THE  PIERS"  . .  "          120 

"YOU  KNOW  I  TOO  MUST  GO  FAR  AWAY" 132 

TlTA  LISTENING 136 

"DEAR  ME!  WHAT  CAN  BE  DONE  WITH  SUCH  A 

YOUNG  SAVAGE  ?" 152 

IN  THE  WOODS 186 

"HE  TOOK  HIS  BEST  COAT  FROM  HIS  LEAN  VA 
LISE" ,  "          208 

"HE  WAS  MERELY  NOTING  THE  EFFECT" 226 

"  SHE  BATHED  HER  FLUSHED  CHEEKS" "          234 

"SHE  STARTED  SLIGHTLY" "         254 

"  SHE  BURIED  HER  FACE  TREMBLINGLY  IN  HER 

HANDS" "          262 

"ANNE  DREW  A  CHAIR  TO  THE  BEDSIDE,  AND 
SAT  DOWN  WITH  HER  BACK  TO  THE  MOON- 

LIGHT" "              284 

M11990 


iv  LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"WHILE  HER  MAID  WAS  COILING  HEB  FAIR 

HAIR" TofacePage  308 

"  IT  is,  OR  SHOULD  BE,  OVER  THERE" "  328 

"Miss  Lois  SIGHED  DEEPLY" "  350 

"  JULY  WALKED  IN  FRONT,  WITH  HIS  GUN  OVER 

HIS  SHOULDER" 374 

"SHE  TRIED  TO  RISE,  BUT  HE  HELD  HER  ARM 

WITH  BOTH  HANDS" , . 386 

"  WEAK,  HOLDING  ON  BY  THE  TREES" "  392 

"SAW  HER  SLOWLY  ASCEND  THE  HOUSE  STEPS"  "  408 

"  ANNE,  STILL  AS  A  STATUE" "  432 

"HE  ROSE,  AND  TOOK  HER  COLD  HANDS  IN  HIS"  460 

' '  HE  OBEYED  WITHOUT  COMMENT" 498 

"  THE  SECOND  BOAT,  WHICH  WAS  FARTHER  UP 

THE  LAKE,  CONTAINED  A  MAN" 514 

"HE  REACHED  THE  WINDOWS,  AND  PEEPED 

THROUGH  A  CRACK  IN  THE  OLD  BLIND"....  "         530 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 

The  youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  East 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 

— WORDSWORTH. 

*'  It  is  but  little  we  can  do  for  each  other.  We  accompany  the  youth 
with  sympathy  and  manifold  old  sayings  of  the  wise  to  the  gate  of  the 
arena,  but  it  is  certain  that  not  by  strength  of  ours,  or  by  the  old  say 
ings,  but  only  on  strength  of  his  own,  unknown  to  us  or  to  any,  he  must 
stand  or  fall." — EMERSON. 

"DOES  it  look  well,  father 2" 
"What,  child!" 

"Does  this  look  well?1' 

William  Douglas  stopped  playing  for  a  moment,  and 
turned  his  head  toward  the  speaker,  who,  standing  on  a 
ladder,  bent  herself  to  one  side,  in  order  that  he  might 
see  the  wreath  of  evergreen,  studded  with  cones,  which 
she  had  hung  on  the  wall  over  one  of  the  small  arched 
windows. 

"  It  is  too  compact,  Anne,  too  heavy.  There  should  be 
sprays  falling  from  it  here  and  there,  like  a  real  vine. 
The  greenery,  dear,  should  be  either  growing  naturally 
upward  or  twining;  large  branches  standing  in  the  cor 
ners  like  trees,  or  climbing  vines.  Stars,  stiff  circles,  and 
set  shapes  should  be  avoided.  That  wreath  looks  as 
though  it  had  been  planed  by  a  carpenter." 

1 


ANNE. 


"Ah,  "said  William  Douglas,  something1  which  made 
you  think  of  a  smile,  although  no  smile  was  there,  pass 
ing  over  his  face,  "it  looks  like  her  work;  it  will  last  a 
long  time.  Arid  there  will  be  no  need  to  remove  it  for 
Ash-  Wednesday,  Anne;  there  is  nothing  joyous  about  it." 

"  I  did  not  notice  that  it  was  ugly,"  said  the  girl,  try 
ing  in  her  bent  posture  to  look  at  the  wreath,  and  bring 
ing  one  eye  and  a  portion  of  anxious  forehead  to  bear 
upon  it. 

"That  is  because  Miss  Lois  made  it,"  replied  William 
Douglas,  returning  to  his  music. 

Anne,  standing  straight  again,  surveyed  the  garland 
in  silence.  Then  she  changed  its  position  once  or  twice, 
studying  the  effect.  Her  figure,  poised  on  the  round  of  the 
ladder,  high  in  the  air,  was,  although  unsupported,  firm. 
With  her  arms  raised  above  her  head  in  a  position  which 
few  women  could  have  endured  for  more  than  a  moment, 
she  appeared  as  unconcerned,  and  strong,  and  sure  of  her 
footing,  as  though  she  had  been  standing  on  the  floor. 
There  was  vigor  about  her  and  elasticity,  combined  un 
expectedly  with  the  soft  curves  and  dimples  of  a  child. 
Viewed  from  the  floor,  this  was  a  young  Diana,  or  a 
Greek  maiden,  as  we  imagine  Greek  maidens  to  have  been. 
The  rounded  arms,  visible  through  the  close  sleeves  of 
the  dark  woollen  dress,  the  finely  moulded  wrists  below 
the  heavy  wreath,  the  lithe,  natural  waist,  all  belonged 
to  a  young  goddess.  But  when  Anne  Douglas  came 
down  from  her  height,  and  turned  toward  you,  the  idea 
^  vanished.  Here  was  no  goddess,  no  Greek  ;  only  an 
American  girl,  with  a  skin  like  a  peach.  Anne  Doug 
las's  eyes  were  violet-blue,  wide  open,  and  frank.  She 
had  not  yet  learned  that  there  was  any  reason  why  she 
should  not  look  at  everything  with  the  calm  directness  of 
childhood.  Equally  like  a  child  was  the  unconsciousness 
of  her  mouth,  but  the  full  lips  were  exquisitely  curved. 
Her  brown  hair  was  braided  in  a  heavy  knot  at  the  back 
of  her  head  ;  but  little  rings  and  roughened  curly  ends 
stood  up  round  her  forehead  and  on  her  temples,  as 
though  defying  restraint.  This  unwritten  face,  with  its 


ANNE.  3 

direct  gaze,  so  far  neutralized  the  effect  of  the  Diana-like 
form  that  the  girl  missed  beauty  on  both  sides.  The 
usual  ideal  of  pretty,  slender,  unformed  maidenhood 
was  riot  realized,  and  yet  Anne  Douglas's  face  was  more 
like  what  is  called  a  baby  face  than  that  of  any  other  girl 
011  the  island.  The  adjective  generally  applied  to  her 
was  "big."  This  big,  soft-cheeked  girl  now  stood  irreso 
lutely  looking  at  the  condemned  wreath. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  poured  a  flood  of  clear  yel 
low  light  through  the  little  west  windows;  the  man  at 
the  organ  was  playing  a  sober,  steadfast  German  choral, 
without  exultation,  yet  full  of  a  resolute  purpose  which 
defied  even  death  and  the  grave.  Out  through  the  east 
ern  windows  stretched  the  frozen  straits,  the  snow-cov 
ered  islands,  and  below  rang  out  the  bugle.  "It  will  be 
dark  in  a  few  moments,"  said  Anne  to  herself;  "I  will 
do  it." 

She  moved  the  ladder  across  to  the  chancel,  mounted 
to  its  top  again,  and  placed  the  wreath  directly  over  the 
altar,  connecting  it  deftly  with  the  numerous  long  lines 
of  delicate  wreathing  woven  in  thread-like  green  lace- 
work  which  hung  there,  waiting  for  their  key-stone — a 
place  of  honor  which  the  condemned  wreath  was  to  fill. 
It  now  crowned  the  whole.  The  little  house  of  God  was 
but  an  upper  chamber,  roughly  finished  and  barren ;  its 
only  treasure  was  a  small  organ,  a  gift  from  a  father 
whose  daughter,  a  stranger  from  the  South,  had  died 
upon  the  island,  requesting  that  her  memorial  might  be 
music  rather  than  a  cold  stone.  William  Douglas  had 
superintended  the  unpacking  and  placing  of  this  gift,  and 
loved  it  almost  as  though  it  had  been  his- own  child.  In 
deed,  it  was  a  child,  a  musical  child — one  who  compre 
hended  his  varying  moods  when  no  one  else  did,  not  even 
Anne. 

"It  makes  no  difference  now,"  said  Anne,  aloud,  car 
rying  the  ladder  toward  the  door;  "  it  is  done  and  ended. 
Here  is  the  ladder,  Jones,  and  please  keep  up  the  fires  all 
night,  unless  you  wish  to  see  us  frozen  stiff  to-morrow." 

A  man  in  common  soldier's  uniform  touched  his  cap 
and  took  the  ladder.  Anne  went  back.  ' '  Now  for  one 


4  ANNE. 

final  look,  father,"  she  said,  "and  then  we  must  go  home; 
the  children  will  be  waiting." 

William  Douglas  played  a  few  more  soft  strains,  and 
turned  round.  "Well,  child,"  he  said,  stroking  his  thin 
gray  beard  with  an  irresolute  motion  habitual  with  him, 
and  looking  at  the  small  perspective  of  the  chapel  with 
critical  gaze,  ' '  so  you  have  put  Miss  Lois's  wreath  up 
there  ?" 

' '  Yes ;  it  is  the  only  thing  she  had  time  to  make,  and 
she  took  so  much  pains  with  it  I  could  not  bear  to  have 
her  disappointed.  It  will  not  be  much  noticed." 

"Yes,  it  will." 

"I  am  sorry,  then;  but  it  can  not  be  moved.  And  to 
tell  the  truth,  father,  although  I  suppose  you  will  laugh 
at  me,  /  think  it  looks  well." 

' '  It  looks  better  than  anything  else  in  the  room,  and 
crowns  the  whole,"  said  Douglas,  rising  and  standing  by 
his  daughter's  side.  "  It  was  a  stroke  of  genius  to  place 
it  there,  Anne." 

"Was  it  ?"  said  the  girl,  her  face  flushing  with  plea 
sure.  "But  I  was  thinking  only  of  Miss  Lois." 

"I  am  afraid  you  were,"  said  Douglas,  with  his  shad 
owy  smile. 

The  rough  walls  and  beams  of  the  chapel  were  deco 
rated  with  fine  spray-like  lines  of  evergreen,  all  pointing 
toward  the  chancel;  there  was  not  a  solid  spot  upon 
which  the  eye  could  rest,  no  upright  branches  in  the  cor 
ners,  no  massed  bunches  over  the  windows,  no  stars  of 
Bethlehem,  anchors,  or  nondescript  Greek  letters ;  the 
whole  chapel  was  simply  outlined  in  light  feathery  lines 
of  green,  which  reached  the  chancel,  entered  it,  played 
about  its  walls,  and  finally  came  together  under  the  one 
massive  wreath  whose  even  circle  and  thick  foliage  held 
them  all  firmly  in  place,  and  ended  their  wanderings  in 
a  restful  quiet  strength.  While  the  two  stood  gazing, 
the  lemon-colored  light  faded,  and  almost  immediately 
it  was  night ;  the  red  glow  shining  out  under  the  doors 
of  the  large  stoves  alone  illuminated  the  room,  which 
grew  into  a  shadowy  place,  the  aromatic  fragrance  of 
the  evergreens  filling  the  warm  air  pungently,  more 


ANNE.  5 

perceptible,  as  fragrance  always  is,  in  the  darkness. 
William  Douglas  turned  to  the  organ  again,  and  began 
playing  the  music  of  an  old  vigil. 

"The  bugle  sounded  long  ago,  father,"  said  Anne, 
"It  is  quite  dark  now,  and  very  cold;  I  know  by  the 
crackling  noise  the  men's  feet  make  across  the  parade- 
ground." 

But  the  father  played  on.  ' '  Come  here,  daughter, "  he 
said;  "listen  to  this  waiting,  watching,  praying  music. 
Do  you  not  see  the  old  monks  in  the  cloisters  telling  the 
hours  through  the  long  night,  waiting  for  the  dawn, 
the  dawn  of  Christmas  ?  Look  round  you ;  see  this  dim 
chapel,  the  air  filled  with  fragrance  like  incense.  These 
far-off  chords,  now ;  might  they  not  be  the  angels,  sing 
ing  over  the  parapet  of  heaven  ?" 

Anne  stood  by  her  father's  side,  and  listened.  ' '  Yes, " 
she  said,  "I  can  imagine  it.  And  yet  I  could  imagine  it 
2,  great  deal  better  if  I  did  not  know  where  every  bench 
was,  and  every  darn  in  the  chancel  carpet,  and  every 
mended  pane  in  the  windows.  I  am  sorry  I  am  so  dull, 
father." 

"Not  dull,  but  unawakened." 

"And  when  shall  I  waken  ?"  pursued  the  girl,  accus 
tomed  to  carrying  on  long  conversations  with  this  dream 
ing  father,  whom  she  loved  devotedly. 

4 '  God  knows !  May  He  be  with  you  at  your  waken 
ing!" 

"I  would  rather  have  you,  father;  that  is,  if  it  is  not 
wicked  to  say  so.  But  I  am  very  often  wicked,  I  think," 
she  added,  remorsefully. 

William  Douglas  smiled,  closed  the  organ,  and,  throw 
ing  his  arm  round  his  tall  young  daughter,  walked  with 
her  down  the  aisle  toward  the  door. 

"But  you  have  forgotten  your  cloak,"  said  Anne,  run 
ning  back  to  get  it.  She  clasped  it  carefully  round  his 
throat,  drew  the  peaked  hood  over  his  head,  and  fastened 
it  with  straps  of  deer's  hide.  Her  own  fur  cloak  and  cap 
were  already  on,  and  thus  enveloped,  the  two  descended 
the  dark  stairs,  crossed  the  inner  parade-ground,  passed 
Under  the  iron  arch,  and  made  their  way  down  the  long 


6  ANNE. 

sloping  path,  cut  in  the  cliff-side,  which  led  from  the  lit« 
tie  fort  011  the  height  to  the  village  below.  The  ther 
mometer  outside  the  commandant's  door  showed  a  tem 
perature  several  degrees  below  zero;  the  dry  old  snow 
that  covered  the  ground  was  hardened  into  ice  on  the  top, 
so  that  boys  walked  on  its  crust  above  the  fences.  Over- 
head  the  stars  glittered  keenly,  like  the  sharp  edges  of 
Damascus  blades,  and  the  white  expanse  of  the  ice-fields 
below  gave  out  a  strange  pallid  light  which  was  neither 
like  that  of  sun  nor  of  moon,  of  dawn  nor  of  twilight.  The 
little  village  showed  but  few  signs  of  life  as  they  turned 
into  its  main  street ;  the  piers  were  sheets  of  ice. 

Nothing  wintered  there ;  the  summer  fleets  were  laid 
up  in  the  rivers  farther  south,  where  the  large  towns 
stood  on  the  lower  lakes.  The  shutters  of  the  few  shops 
had  been  tightly  closed  at  sunset,  when  all  the  inhabited 
houses  were  tightly  closed  also;  inside  there  were  cur 
tains,  sometimes  a  double  set,  woollen  cloth,  blankets,  or 
skins,  according  to  the  wealth  of  the  occupants.  Thus 
housed,  with  great  fires  burning  in  their  dark  stoves,  and 
one  small  lamp,  the  store-keepers  waited  for  custom  until 
nine  o'clock,  after  which  time  hardly  any  one  stirred 
abroad,  unless  it  was  some  warm-blooded  youth,  who  de 
fied  the  elements  with  the  only  power  which  can  make 
us  forget  them. 

At  times,  early  in  the  evening,  the  door  of  one  of  these 
shops  opened,  and  a  figure  entered  through  a  narrow 
crack;  for  no  islander  opened  a  door  widely — it  was  giv 
ing  too  much  advantage  to  the  foe  of  his  life,  the  wea 
ther.  This  figure,  enveloped  in  furs  or  a  blanket,  came 
toward  the  stove  and  warmed  its  hands  with  deliberation, 
the  merchant  meanwhile  remaining  calmly  seated ;  then, 
after  some  moments,  it  threw  back  its  hood,  and  disclosed 
the  face  of  perhaps  an  Indian,  perhaps  a  French  fisher 
man,  perhaps  an  Irish  soldier  from  the  barracks.  The 
customer  now  mentioned  his  errand,  and  the  merchant, 
rising  in  his  turn,  stretched  himself  like  a  shaggy  dog 
loath  to  leave  the  fire,  took  his  little  lamp,  and  prepared 
,  to  go  in  quest  of  the  article  desired,  which  lay,  perhaps, 
hoyond  the  circle  of  heat,  somewhere  in  the  outer  dark 


ANNE.  7 

ness  of  the  dim  interior.  It  was  an  understood  rule  that 
no  one  should  ask  for  nails  or  any  kind  of  ironware  in 
the  evening' :  it  was  labor  enough  for  the  merchant  to  find 
and  handle  his  lighter  goods  when  the  cold  was  so  intense. 
There  was  not  much  bargaining  in  the  winter;  people 
kept  their  breath  in  their  mouths.  The  merchants  could 
have  made  money  if  they  had  had  more  customers  or 
more  energy;  as  it  was,  however,  the  small  population 
and  the  cold  kept  them  lethargically  honest. 

Anne  and  her  father  turned  northward.  The  southern 
half  of  the  little  village  had  two  streets,  one  behind  the 
other,  and  both  were  clogged  and  overshadowed  by  the 
irregular  old  buildings  of  the  once-powerful  fur  company. 
These  ancient  frames,  empty  and  desolate,  rose  above  the 
low  cottages  of  the  islanders,  sometimes  three  and  four 
stories  in  height,  with  the  old  pulleys  and  hoisting  ap 
paratus  still  in  place  under  their  peaked  roofs,  like  gallows 
ready  for  the  old  traders  to  hang1  themselves  upon,  if 
they  came  back  and  saw  the  degeneracy  of  the  furless 
times.  No  one  used  these  warehouses  now,  no  one  prop 
ped  them  up,  no  one  pulled  them  down ;  there  they  stood, 
closed  and  empty,  their  owners  being  but  so  many  dis 
couraged  bones  under  the  sod ;  for  the  Company  had  dis 
solved  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  leaving  only  far-off 
doubtful  and  quarrelling  heirs.  The  little  island  could 
not  have  the  buildings ;  neither  could  it  pull  them  down. 
They  were  dogs  in  the  manger,  therefore,  if  the  people 
had  looked  upon  them  with  progressive  American  eyes ; 
but  they  did  not.  They  were  not  progressive ;  they  were 
hardly  American.  If  they  had  any  glory,  it  was  of 
that  very  past,  the  days  when  those  buildings  were  full 
of  life.  There  was  scarcely  a  family  on  the  island  that 
did  not  cherish  its  tradition  of  the  merry  fur-trading 
times,  when  "grandfather"  was  a  factor,  a  superintend 
ent,  a  clerk,  a  hunter;  even  a  voyageur  had  his  impor 
tance,  now  that  there  were  no  more  voyageurs.  Those 
were  gay  days,  they  said ;  they  should  never  look  upon 
their  like  again:  unless,  indeed,  the  past  should  come 
back — a  possibility  which  did  not  seem  so  unlikely  on 
the  island  as  it  does  elsewhere,  since  the  people  were 


8  ANNE. 

plainly  retrograding-,  and  who  knows  but  that  they  might 
some  time  even  catch  up  with  the  past  ? 

North  of  the  piers  there  was  only  one  street,  which  ran 
along  the  water's  edge.  On  the  land  side  first  came  the 
fort  garden,  where  successive  companies  of  soldiers  had 
vainly  fought  the  climate  in  an  agricultural  wayT  red 
coats  of  England  and  blue-coats  of  the  United  States,  with 
much  the  same  results  of  partially  ripened  vegetables, 
nipped  fruits,  and  pallid  flowers;  for  the  island  summer 
was  beautiful,  but  too  short  for  lusciousness.  Hardy 
plants  grew  well,  but  there  was  always  a  persistent  pre 
ference  for  those  that  were  not  hardy — like  delicate  beau 
ties  who  are  loved  and  cherished  tenderly,  while  the 
strong  brown  maids  go  by  unnoticed.  The  officers'  wives 
made  catsup  of  the  green  tomatoes,  and  loved  their  weak 
ling  flowers  for  far-away  home's  sake ;  and  as  the  Indians 
brought  in  canoe-loads  of  fine  full-jacketed  potatoes  from 
their  little  farms  on  the  mainland,  the  officers  could  af 
ford  to  let  the  soldiers  do  fancy-work  in  the  government 
fields  if  it  pleased  the  exiled  ladies.  Beyond  the  army 
garden  was  the  old  Agency  house.  The  Agency  itself 
had  long  been  removed  farther  westward,  following  the 
retreating,  dwindling  tribes  of  the  red  men  farther  toward 
the  Rocky  Mountains ;  but  the  old  house  remained.  On 
its  door  a  brass  plate  was  still  fixed,  bearing  the  words, 
"United  States  Agency."  But  it  was  now  the  home  of 
a  plain,  unimportant  citizen,  William  Douglas. 

Anne  ran  up  the  path  toward  the  front  door,  thinking 
of  the  children  and  the  supper.  She  climbed  the  uneven 
snow-covered  steps,  turned  the  latch,  and  entered  the 
dark  hall.  There  was  a  line  of  light  under  the  left-hand 
door,  and  taking  off  her  fur-lined  overshoes,  she  went  in. 
The  room  was  large ;  its  three  windows  were  protected  by 
shutters,  and  thick  curtains  of  red  hue,  faded  but  cheery ; 
a  great  fire  of  logs  was  burning  on  the  hearth,  lighting 
up  every  corner  with  its  flame  and  glow,  and  making  the 
poor  furniture  splendid.  In  its  radiance  the  curtains 
were  damask,  the  old  carpet  a  Persiaii-hued  luxury,  and 
the  preparations  for  cooking  an  Arabian  Nights'  dis 
play.  Three  little  boys  ran  forward  to  meet  their  sister ; 


ANNE. 

9 

a  girl  who  was  basking  in  the  glow  of  the  flame  looked 
up  languidly.  They  were  odd  children,  with  black  eyes, 
coal-black  hair,  dark  skins,  and  bold  eagle  outlines.  The 
eldest,  the  girl,  was  small — a  strange  little  creature,  with 
braids  of  black  hair  hanging  down  behind  almost  to  her 
ankles,  half-closed  black  eyes,  little  hands  and  feet,  a  low 
soft  voice,  and  the  grace  of  a  young  panther.  The  boys 
were  larger,  handsome  little  fellows  of  wild  aspect.  In 
fact,  all  four  were  of  mixed  blood,  their  mother  having 
been  a  beautiful  French  quarter-breed,  and  their  father — 
William  Douglas. 

"Annet,  Annet,  can't  we  have  fried  potatoes  for  sup 
per,  and  bacon  ?" 

"Annet,  Annet,  can't  we  have  coffee?" 

"  It  is  a  biting  night,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Tita,  coming  to  her 
sister's  side  and  stroking  her  cold  hands  gently.  "I 
really  think,  Annet,  that  you  ought  to  have  something 
substantielle.  You  see,  I  think  of  you ;  whereas  those 
howling  piggish  bears  think  only  of  themselves." 

All  this  she  delivered  in  a  soft,  even  voice,  while  Anne 
removed  the  remainder  of  her  wrappings. 

"I  have  thought  of  something  better  still,"  said  Will 
iam  Douglas's  eldest  daughter,  kissing  her  little  sister 
fondly,  and  then  stepping  out  of  the  last  covering,  and 
lifting  the  heap  from  the  floor — "batter  cakes !" 

The  boys  gave  a  shout  of  delight,  and  danced  up  and 
down  on  the  hearth ;  Tita  went  back  to  her  corner  and 
sat  down,  clasping  her  little  brown  hands  round  he? 
ankles,  like  the  embalmed  monkeys  of  the  Nile.  Her 
corner  was  made  by  an  old  secretary  and  the  side  of  the 
great  chimney;  this  space  she  had  lined  and  carpeted 
with  furs,  and  here  she  sat  curled  up  with  her  book  or 
her  bead- work  all  through  the  long  winter,  refusing  to 
leave  the  house  unless  absolutely  ordered  out  by  Anne, 
who  filled  the  place  of  mother  to  these  motherless  littles 
ones.  Tita  was  well  satisfied  with  the  prospect  of  batter 
cakes;  she  would  probably  eat  two  if  Anne  browned 
them  well,  and  they  were  light  and  tender.  But  as  for 
those  boys,  those  wolf-dogs,  those  beasts,  they  would 
probably  swallow  dozens.  "If  you  come  any  nearer, 


10  ANNE. 

Louis,  I  shall  lay  open  the  side  of  your  head, "  she  an 
nouiiced,  gently,  as  the  boys  danced  too  near  her  hermit 
age;  they,  accustomed  alike  to  her  decisions  and  her 
words,  danced  farther  away  without  any  discussion  of 
the  subject.  Tita  was  an  excellent  playmate  sometimes ; 
her  little  moccasined  feet,  and  long  braids  streaming  be 
hind,  formed  the  most  exciting  feature  of  their  summer 
races ;  her  blue  cloth  skirt  up  in  the  tops  of  the  tallest 
trees,  the  provocative  element  in  their  summer  climbing. 
She  was  a  pallid  little  creature,  while  they  were  brown ; 
small,  while  they  were  large ;  but  she  domineered  over 
them  like  a  king,  and  wreaked  a  whole  vocabulary  of 
roughest  fisherman's  terms  upon  them  when  they  dis 
pleased  he  A  One  awful  vengeance  she  reserved  as  a  last 
resort :  when  they  had  been  unbearably  troublesome  she 
stole  into  their  room  at  night  in  her  little  white  night 
gown,  with  all  her  long  thick  black  hair  loose,  combed 
over  her  face,  and  hanging  down  round  her  nearly  to 
her  feet.  This  was  a  ghostly  visitation  which  the  boys 
could  not  endure,  for  she  left  a  lamp  in  the  hall  outside, 
so  that  they  could  dimly  see  her,  and  then  she  stood  and 
swayed  toward  them  slowly,  backward  and  forward,  with 
out  a  sound,  all  the  time  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  until 
they  shrieked  aloud  in  terror,  and  Anne,  hurrying  to  the 
rescue,  found  only  three  frightened  little  fellows  cower 
ing  together  in  their  broad  bed,  and  the  hairy  ghost  gone, 

"  How  can  you  do  such  things,  Tita?1'  she  said. 

"  It  is  the  only  way  by  which  I  can  keep  the  little  dev 
ils  in  order,"  replied  Tita. 

"Do  not  use  such  words,  dear." 

"Mother  did,"  said  the  younger  sister,  in  her  soft  calm 
voice. 

This  was  true,  and  Tita  knew  that  Anne  never  im 
pugned  the  memory  of  that  mother. 

"Who  volunteers  to  help  ?"  said  Anne,  lighting  a  can 
dle  in  an  iron  candlestick,  and  opening  a  door. 
>  "I,"  said  Louis. 

"I, "said  Gabriel. 

"Me  too,"  said  little  Andre. 

They  followed  her,  hopping  along  together,  with  arms 


ANNE.  11 

interlinked,  while  her  candle  shed  a  light  on  the  bare 
walls  and  floors  of  the  rooms  through  which  they  passed, 
a  series  of  little  apartments,  empty  and  desolate,  at  the 
end  of  which  was  the  kitchen,  inhabited  in  the  daytime 
by  an  Irishwoman,  a  soldier's  wife,  who  came  in  the 
morning  before  breakfast,  and  went  home  at  dusk,  the 
only  servant  William  Douglas's  fast-thinning  purse  could 
afford.  Anne  might  have  had  her  kitchen  nearer  what 
Miss  Lois  called  the  "keeping-room" ;  any  one  of  the  five 
in  the  series  would  have  answered  the  purpose  as  well  as 
the  one  she  had  chosen.  But  she  had  a  dream  of  fur 
nishing  them  all  some  day  according  to  a  plan  of  her 
own,  and  it  would  have  troubled  her  greatly  to  have  used 
her  proposed  china  closet,  pantry,  store-room,  preserve 
closet,  or  fruit-room  for  culinary  purposes.  How  often 
had  she  gone  over  the  whole  in  her  mind,  settling  the 
position  of  every  shelf,  and  deliberating  over  the  pattern 
of  the  cups !  The  Irishwoman  had  left  some  gleams  of 
fire  on  the  hearth,  and  the  boys  immediately  set  them 
selves  to  work  burying  potatoes  in  the  ashes,  with  the  hot 
hearth-stone  beneath.  "  For  of  course  you  are  going  to 
cook  111  the  sitting-room,  Annet,"  they  said.  "  We  made 
all  ready  for  you  there;  and,  besides,  this  fire  is  out." 

"You  could  easily  have  kept  it  up, "said  the  sister, 
smiling.  "However,  as  it  is  Christmas-eve,  I  will  let 
you  have  your  way." 

The  boys  alertly  loaded  themselves  with  the  articles 
she  gave  them,  and  went  hopping  back  into  the  sitting- 
room.  They  scorned  to  walk  on  Christmas-eve;  the 
thing  was  to  hop,  and  yet  carry  every  dish  steadily. 
They  arranged  the  table,  still  in  a  sort  of  dancing  step, 
and  sang  together  in  their  shrill  childish  voices  a  tune  of 
their  own,  without  any  words  but  "  Ho !  ho !  ho !"  Tita, 
in  her  corner,  kept  watch  over  the  proceedings,  and  in 
haled  the  aroma  of  the  coffee  with  indolent  anticipation. 
The  tin  pot  stood  on  the  hearth  near  her,  surrounded  by 
coals ;  it  was  a  battered  old  coffee-pot,  grimy  as  a  camp- 
kettle,  but  dear  to  all  the  household,  and  their  principal 
comforter  when  the  weather  was  bitter,  provisions  scarce, 
or  the  boys  especially  troublesome.  For  the  boys  said 


J2  ANNE. 

they  did  not  enjoy  being  especially  troublesome;  they 
could  not  help  it  any  more  than  they  could  help  having 
the  measles  or  the  whooping-cough.  They  needed  cof 
fee,  therefore,  for  the  conflict,  when  they  felt  it  coming 
on,  as  much  as  any  of  the  household. 

Poor  Anne's  cooking  utensils  were  few  and  old ;  it  was 
hard  to  make  batter  cakes  over  an  open  fire  without  the 
proper  hanging  griddle.  But  she  attempted  it,  neverthe 
less,  and  at  length,  with  scarlet  cheeks,  placed  a  plateful 
of  them,  brown,  light,  and  smoking,  upon  the  table. 
"Now,  Louis,  run  out  for  the  potatoes;  and,  Tita,  call 
father." 

This  one  thing  Tita  would  do ;  she  aspired  to  be  her 
father's  favorite.  She  went  out  with  her  noiseless  step, 
and  presently  returned  leading  in  the  tall,  bent,  gray- 
haired  father,  her  small  brown  hand  holding  his  tightly, 
her  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  a  persistent  steadiness, 
as  if  determined  to  isolate  all  his  attention  upon  herself. 
William  Douglas  was  never  thoroughly  at  ease  with  his 
youngest  daughter;  she  had  this  habit  of  watching  him 
silently,  which  made  him  uncomfortable.  The  boys  he 
understood,  and  made  allowances  for  their  wildness  ; 
but  this  girl,  with  her  soft  still  ways,  perplexed  and 
troubled  him.  She  seemed  to  embody,  as  it  were,  his 
own  mistakes,  and  he  never  looked  at  her  little  pale  face 
and  diminutive  figure  without  a  vague  feeling  that  she 
was  a  spirit  dwelling  on  earth  in  elfish  form,  with  a  half- 
developed  contradictory  nature,  to  remind  him  of  his  past 
weakness.  Standing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  tall  and 
straight,  with  her  nobly  poised  head  and  clear  Saxon 
eyes,  his  other  daughter  awaited  him,  and  met  his  gaze 
with  a  bright  smile ;  he  always  came  back  to  her  with  a 
sense  of  comfort.  But  Tita  jealously  brought  his  atten 
tion  to  herself  again  by  pulling  his  hand,  and  leading 
him  to  his  chair,  taking  her  own  place  close  beside  him. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  and  her  head  did  not  reach  his  elbow, 
but  she  ruled  him.  The  father  now  asked  a  blessing;  he 
always  hesitated  on  his  way  through  it,  once  or  twice,  as 
though  he  had  forgotten  what  to  say,  but  took  up  the 
thread  again  after  an  instant's  pause,  and  went  on. 


ANNE.  13 

When  he  came  to  the  end,  and  said  "Amen,"  he  always 
sat  down  with  a  relieved  air.  If  you  had  asked  him 
what  he  had  said,  he  could  not  have  told  you  unless  you 
started  him  at  the  beginning,  when  the  old  formula 
would  have  rolled  off  his  lips  in  the  same  vague,  mechan 
ical  way.  The  meal  proceeded  in  comparative  quiet ;  the 
boys  no  longer  hummed  and  shuffled  their  feet;  they 
were  engaged  with  the  cakes.  Tita  refrained  from  re 
marks  save  once,  when  Gabriel  having  dropped  buttered 
crumbs  upon  her  dress,  she  succinctly  threatened  him 
with  dismemberment.  Douglas  gazed  at  her  helplessly, 
and  sighed. 

"She  will  be  a  woman  soon,"  he  said  to  his  elder 
daughter,  when,  an  hour  or  two  later,  she  joined  him  in 
his  own  apartment,  and  drew  from  its  hiding-place  her 
large  sewing-basket,  filled  with  Christmas  presents. 

"Oh  no,  father,  she  is  but  a  child,"  answered  Anne, 
cheerfully.  ' '  As  she  grows  older  these  little  faults  will 
vanish." 

"How  old  is  she  ?"  said  Douglas. 

"Just  thirteen." 

The  father  played  a  bar  of  Mendelssohn  noiselessly  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  long  thin  fingers ;  he  was 
thinking  that  he  had  married  Tita's  mother  when  she  was 
hardly  three  years  older.  Anne  was  absorbed  in  her 
presents. 

1 '  See,  father,  will  not  this  be  nice  for  Andre  ?  And 
this  for  Gabriel  ?  And  I  have  made  such  a  pretty  doll 
for  Tita." 

"Will  she  care  for  it,  dear  ?" 

' '  Of  course  she  wrill.  Did  I  not  play  with  my  own 
dear  doll  until  I  was  fourteen  years  old — yes,  almost  fif 
teen  ?"  said  the  girl,  with  a  little  laugh  and  blush. 

' '  And  you  are  now — 

"  I  am  over  sixteen." 

"A  great  age,"  said  Douglas,  smoothing  her  thick 
brown  hair  fondly,  as  she  sat  near  him,  bending  over  her 
sewing. 

The  younger  children  were  asleep  up  stairs  in  two  old 
bedrooms  with  rattling  dormer  windows,  and  the  father 


14 

and  elder  daughter  were  in  a  small  room  opposite  the 
sitting-room,  called  the  study,  although  nothing  was 
ever  studied  there,  save  the  dreams  of  his  own  life,  by 
the  vague,  irresolute,  imaginative  soul  that  dwelt  there 
in,  in  a  thin  body  of  its  own,  much  the  worse  for  wear. 
William  Douglas  was  a  New  England  man  of  the  brood 
ing  type,  sent  by  force  of  circumstances  into  the  ranks 
of  United  States  army  surgeons.  He  had  married 
Anne's  mother,  who  had  passionately  loved  him,  against 
the  wishes  of  her  family,  and  had  brought  the  disin 
herited  young  bride  out  to  this  far  Western  island, 
where  she  had  died,  happy  to  the  last  —  one  of  those 
rare  natures  to  whom  love  is  all  in  all,  and  the  whole 
world  well  lost  for  its  dear  and  holy  sake.  Grief  over 
her  death  brought  out  all  at  once  the  latent  doubts,  hesi 
tations,  and  strange  perplexities  of  William  Douglas's 
peculiar  mind — perplexities  which  might  have  lain  dor 
mant  in  a  happier  life.  He  resigned  his  position  as  army 
surgeon,  and  refused  even  practice  in  the  village.  Med 
ical  science  was  not  exact,  he  said ;  there  was  much  pre 
tense  and  presumption  in  it;  he  would  no  longer  counte 
nance  deception,  or  play  a  part.  He  was  then  made 
postmaster,  and  dealt  out  letters  through  some  seasons, 
until  at  last  his  mistakes  roused  the  attention  of  the  new 
officers  at  the  fort ;  for  the  villagers,  good,  easy-tempered 
people,  would  never  have  complained  of  such  trifles  as  a 
forgotten  mail-bag  or  two  under  the  counter.  Super 
seded,  he  then  attended  nominally  to  the  highways ;  but 
as  the  military  authorities  had  for  years  done  all  that  was 
to  be  done  on  the  smooth  roads,  three  in  number,  includ 
ing  the  steep  fort  hill,  the  position  was  a  sinecure,  and 
the  superintendent  took  long  walks  across  the  island, 
studying  the  flora  of  the  Northern  woods,  watching  the 
birds,  noticing  the  clouds  and  the  winds,  staying  out  late 
to  experiment  with  the  flash  of  the  two  light-houses  from 
their  different  distances,  and  then  coming  home  to  his 
lonely  house,  where  the  baby  Anne  was  tenderly  cared 
for  by  Miss  Lois  Hinsdale,  who  superintended  the  nurse 
all  day,  watched  her  charge  to  bed,  and  then  came  over 
early  in  the  morning  before  she  woke.  Miss  Lois  adored 


Al&E. 


15 


the  baby ;  and  she  watched  the  lonely  father  from  a  dis 
tance,  imagining  all  his  sadness.  It  was  the  poetry  of 
her  life.  Who,  therefore,  can  picture  her  feelings  when, 
at  the  end  of  three  years,  it  was  suddenly  brought  to  her 
knowledge  that  Douglas  was  soon  to  marry  again,  and 
that  his  choice  was  Angelique  Lafontaine,  a  French 
quarter-breed  girl ! 

Angelique  was  amiable,  and  good  in  her  way ;  she  was 
also  very  beautiful.  But  Miss  Lois  could  have  borne  it 
better  if  she  had  been  homely.  The  New  England  wo 
man  wept  bitter,  bitter  tears  that  night.  A  god  had  come 
down  and  showed  himself  flesh ;  an  ideal  was  shattered. 
How  long  had  she  dwelt  upon  the  beautiful  love  of  Dr. 
Douglas  and  his  young  wife,  taking  it  as  a  perfect  exam 
ple  of  rare,  sweet  happiness  which  she  herself  had  missed, 
of  which  she  herself  was  not  worthy !  How  many  times 
had  she  gone  up  to  the  little  burial-ground  on  the  height, 
and  laid  flowers  from  her  garden  on  the  mound,  whose 
stone  bore  only  the  inscription,  "  Alida,  wife  of  William 
Douglas,  aged  twenty -two  years."  Miss  Lois  had  wished 
to  have  a  text  engraved  under  this  brief  line,  and  a  date ; 
but  Dr.  Douglas  gently  refused  a  text,  and  regarding  a 
date  he  said:  "Time  is  nothing.  Those  who  love  her 
will  remember  the  date,  and  strangers  need  not  know. 
But  I  should  like  the  chance  visitor  to  note  that  she  was 
only  twenty-two,  and,  as  he  stands  there,  think  of  her 
with  kindly  regret,  as  we  all  think  of  the  early  dead, 
though  why,  Miss  Lois,  why,  I  can  not  tell,  since  in  go 
ing  hence  early  surely  the  dead  lose  nothing,  for  God 
would  not  allow  any  injustice,  I  think — yes,  I  have  about 
decided  in  my  own  mind  that  He  does  not  allow  it." 

Miss  Lois,  startled,  looked  at  him  questioningly.  He 
was  then  a  man  of  thirty-four,  tall,  slight,  still  notice 
able  for  the  peculiar  refined  delicacy  of  face  and  manner 
which  had  first  won  the  interest  of  sweet,  impulsive  Alida 
Clanssen. 

"I  trust,  doctor,  that  you  accept  the  doctrines  of  Holy 
Scripture  on  all  such  subjects, "  said  Miss  Lois.  Then  she 
felt  immediately  that  she  should  have  said  ' '  of  the 
Church" ;  for  she  was  a  comparatively  new  Episcopalian, 


16  ANNS. 

having  been  trained  a  New  England  Presbyterian  of  the 
severest  hue. 

Dr.  Douglas  came  back  to  practical  life  again  in  the 
troubled  gaze  of  the  New  England  woman's  eyes.  ' '  Miss 
Lois,"  he  said,  turning  the  subject,  "Alida  loved  and 
trusted  you  ;  will  you  sometimes  think  of  her  little 
daughter  ?" 

And  then  Miss  Lois,  the  quick  tears  coming,  forgot  all 
about  orthodoxy,  gladly  promised  to  watch  over  the  baby, 
and  kept  her  word.  But  now  her  life  was  shaken,  and 
all  her  romantic  beliefs  disturbed  and  shattered,  by  this 
overwhelming  intelligence.  She  was  wildly,  furiously 
jealous,  wildly,  furiously  angry — jealous  for  Alida'ssake, 
for  the  baby's,  for  her  own.  It  is  easy  to  be  humble  when 
a  greater  is  preferred;  but  when  an  inferior  is  lifted  high 
above  our  heads,  how  can  we  bear  it  ?  And  Miss  Lois 
was  most  jealous  of  all  for  Douglas  himself — that  such  a 
man  should  so  stoop.  She  hardly  knew  herself  that 
night  as  she  harshly  pulled  down  the  curtains,  pushed  a 
stool  half  across  the  room,  slammed  the  door,  and  purpose 
ly  knocked  over  the  fire-irons.  Lois  Hinsdale  had  never 
since  her  birth  given  way  to  rage  before  (nor  known  the 
solace  of  it),  and  she  was  now  forty-one  years  old.  All 
her  life  afterward  she  remembered  that  night  as  some 
thing  akin  to  a  witch's  revel  on  the  Brocken,  a  horrible 
wild  reign  of  passion  which  she  trembled  to  recall,  and 
for  which  she  did  penance  many  times  in  tears.  "It 
shows  the  devil  there  is  in  us  all,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
she  never  passed  the  fire-irons  for  a  long  time  afterward 
without  an  unpleasant  consciousness. 

The  limited  circle  of  island  society  suggested  that  Miss 
Lois  had  been  hunting  the  loon  with  a  hand-net — a  North 
ern  way  of  phrasing  the  wearing  of  the  willow ;  but  if 
the  New  England  woman  loved  William  Douglas,  she 
was  not  conscious  of  it,  but  merged  the  feeling  in  her  love 
for  his  child,  and  for  the  memory  of  Alida.  True,  she 
was  seven  years  older  than  he  wras :  women  of  forty-one 
can  answer  whether  that  makes  any  difference. 

On  a  brilliant,  sparkling,  clear  June  morning  William 
Douglas  went  down  to  the  little  Roman  Catholic  church 


ANNE.  17 

and  married  the  French  girl.  As  he  had  resigned  his 
position  in  the  army  some  time  before,  and  as  there  was 
a  new  set  of  officers  at  the  fort,  his  marriage  made  little 
impression  there  save  on  the  mind  of  the  chaplain,  who 
had  loved  him  well  when  he  was  surgeon  of  the  post,  and 
had  played  many  a  game  of  chess  with  him.  The  whole 
French  population  of  the  island,  however,  came  to  the 
marriage.  That  was  expected.  But  what  was  not  ex 
pected  was  the  presence  there  of  Miss  Lois  Hinsdale,  sit 
ting  severely  rigid  in  the  first  pew,  accompanied  by  the 
doctor's  child — a  healthy,  blue-eyed  little  girl,  who  kiss 
ed  her  new  mamma  obediently,  and  thought  her  very 
sweet  and  pretty — a  belief  which  remained  with  her  al 
ways,  the  careless,  indolent,  easy- tempered,  beautiful 
young  second  wife  having  died  when  her  step-daughter 
was  eleven  years  old,  leaving  four  little  ones,  who,  ac 
cording  to  a  common  freak  of  nature,  were  more  Indian 
than  their  mother.  The  Douglas  family  grew  poorer  ev 
ery  year ;  but  as  every  one  was  poor  there,  poverty  was 
respectable ;  and  as  all  poverty  is  comparative,  they  al 
ways  esteemed  themselves  comfortable.  For  they  had 
the  old  Agency  for  a  home,  and  it  was  in  some  respects 
the  most  dignified  residence  on  the  island ;  and  they  had 
the  remains  of  the  furniture  which  the  young  surgeon 
had  brought  with  him  from  the  East  when  his  Alida  was 
a  bride,  and  that  was  better  than  most  of  the  furniture  in 
use  in  the  village.  The  little  stone  fort  on  the  height 
was,  of  course,  the  castle  of  the  town,  and  its  command 
ant  by  courtesy  the  leader  of  society ;  but  the  infantry 
officers  who  succeeded  each  other  at  this  distant  Northern 
post  brought  little  with  them,  camping  out,  as  it  were,  in 
their  low-ceilinged  quarters,  knowing  that  another  sea 
son  might  see  them  far  away.  The  Agency,  therefore, 
preserved  an  air  of  dignity  still,  although  its  roof  leaked, 
its  shutters  rattled,  although  its  plastering  was  gone  here 
and  there,  and  its  floors  were  uneven  and  decayed.  Two 
of  its  massive  outside  chimneys,  clamped  to  the  sides  of 
the  house,  were  half  down,  looking  like  broken  columns, 
monuments  of  the  past ;  but  there  were  a  number  left. 
The  Agency  originally  had  bristled  with  chimneys,  which 


18  ANNE. 

gave,  on  a  small  scale,  a  castellated  air  to  its  rambling 
outline. 

Dr.  Douglas's  study  was  old,  crowded,  and  comfortable: 
that  is,  comfortable  to  those  who  have  consciousness  in 
their  finger-ends,  and  no  uncertainty  as  to  their  feet ;  the 
great  army  of  blunderers  and  stumblers,  the  handle-ev- 
ery thing,  knock-over-every thing  people,  who  cut  a  broa.d 
swath  through  the  smaller  furniture  of  a  room  whenever 
they  move,  would  have  been  troubled  and  troublesome 
there.  The  boys  were  never  admitted;  but  Tita,  who 
stepped  like  a  little  cat,  and  Anne,  who  had  a  deft  direct 
aim  in  all  her  motions,  were  often  present.  The  comfort 
of  the  place  was  due  to  Anne ;  she  shook  out  and  arranged 
the  curtains,  darned  the  old  carpet,  re-covered  the  lounge, 
polished  the  andirons,  and  did  all  without  disturbing  the 
birds'  wings,  the  shells,  the  arrow-heads,  the  skins,  dried 
plants,  wampum,  nets,  bits  of  rock,  half -finished  drawings, 
maps,  books,  and  papers,  which  were  scattered  about,  or 
suspended  from  the  walls.  William  Douglas,  knowing 
something  of  everything,  was  exact  in  nothing :  now  he 
stuffed  birds,  now  he  read  Greek,  now  he  botanized,  now 
he  played  on  the  flute,  now  he  went  about  in  all  weathers 
chipping  the  rocks  with  ardent  zeal,  now  he  smoked  in 
his  room  all  day  without  a  word  or  a  look  for  anybody. 
He  sketched  well,  but  seldom  finished  a  picture ;  he  went 
out  hunting  when  the  larder  was  empty,  and  forgot  what 
he  went  for;  he  had  a  delicate  mechanical  skill,  and  made 
some  curious  bits  of  intricate  work,  but  he  never  mended 
the  hinges  of  the  shutters,  or  repaired  a  single  article 
which  was  in  daily  use  in  his  household. 

By  the  careful  attention  of  Anne  he  was  present  in  the 
fort  chapel  every  Sunday  morning,  and,  once  there,  he 
played  the  organ  with  delight,  and  brought  exquisite 
harmonies  from  its  little  pipes ;  but  Anne  stood  there  be 
side  -him  all  the  time,  found  the  places,  and  kept  him 
down  to  the  work,  borrowing  his  watch  beforehand  in 
order  to  touch  him  when  the  voluntary  was  too  long,  or 
the  chords  between  the  hymn  verses  too  beautiful  and  in 
tricate.  Those  were  the  days  when  the  old  buckram- 
backed  rhymed  versions  of  the  psalms  were  steadfastly 


"THE  GIRL  PAUSED  AND  REFLECTED  A  MOMENT. 


ANNE.  19 

gwen  out  at  every  service,  and  Anne's  rich  voice  sang, 
with  earnest  fervor,  words  like  these : 

"  His  liberal  favors  he  extends, 
To  some  he  gives,  to  others  lends  ; 
Yet  when  his  charity  impairs, 
He  saves  by  prudence  in  affairs," 

while  her  father  followed  them  with  harmony  fit  for  an 
gels.  Douglas  taught  his  daughter  music  in  the  best  sense 
of  the  phrase;  she  read  notes  accurately,  and  knew  no 
thing  of  inferior  composers,  the  only  change  from  the 
higher  courts  of  melody  being  some  of  the  old  French 
chansons  of  the  voyageurs,  which  still  lingered  on  the 
island,  echoes  of  the  past.  She  could  not  touch  the  ivory 
keys  with  any  skill,  her  hands  were  too  much  busied  with 
other  work;  but  she  practiced  her  singing  lessons  as  she 
went  about  the  house — music  which  would  have  seemed 
to  the  world  of  New  York  as  old-fashioned  as  Chaucer. 

The  fire  of  logs  blazed  on  the  hearth,  the  father  sat 
looking  at  his  daughter,  who  was  sewing  swiftly,  her 
thoughts  fixed  upon  her  work.  The  clock  struck  eleven. 

"  It  is  late,  Anne." 

' '  Yes,  father,  but  I  must  finish.  I  have  so  little  time 
during  the  day." 

"My  good  child,"  said  Douglas,  slowly  and  fondly. 

Anne  looked  up ;  his  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

"I  have  done  nothing  for  you,  dear,"  he  said,  as  she 
dropped  her  work  and  knelt  by  his  side.  ' '  I  have  kept 
you  selfishly  with  me  here,  and  made  you  a  slave  to  those 
children." 

"  My  own  brothers  and  my  own  little  sister,  father." 

' '  Do  you  feel  so,  Anne  ?  Then  may  God  bless  you  for 
it!  But  I  should  not  have  kept  you  here." 

"This  is  our  home,  papa." 

"A  poor  one." 

"  Is  it  ?     It  never  seemed  so  to  me." 

"That  is  because  you  have  known  nothing  better." 

"  But  I  like  it,  papa,  just  as  it  is.  I  have  always  been 
happy  here." 

"  Really  happy,  Anne  ?" 

The  girl  paused,  and  reflected  a  moment.      (t  Yes,"  she 


gO  ANNE. 

said,  looking  into  the  depths  of  the  fire,  with  a  smile,  "I 
am  happy  all  the  time.  I  am  never  anything1  but  happy. " 

William  Douglas  looked  at  her.  The  fire-light  shone 
on  her  face ;  she  turned  her  clear  eyes  toward  him. 

' '  Then  you  do  not  mind  the  children  ?  They  are  not 
a  burdensome  weight  upon  you  ?" 

* '  Never,  papa ;  how  can  you  suppose  it  ?  I  love  them 
dearly,  next  to  you." 

' '  And  will  you  stand  by  them,  Anne  ?  Note  my 
words:  I  do  not  urge  it,  I  simply  ask." 

' '  Of  course  I  will  stand  by  them,  papa.  I  give  a  promise 
of  my  own  accord.  I  will  never  forsake  them  as  long  as  I 
can  do  anything  for  them,  as  long  as  I  live.  But  why  do 
you  speak  of  it  ?  Have  I  ever  neglected  them  or  been  un 
kind  to  them  ?"  said  the  girl,  troubled,  and  very  near  tears. 

' '  No,  dear ;  you  love  them  better  than  they  or  I  deserve. 
I  was  thinking  of  the  future,  and  of  a  time  when" — he 
had  intended  to  say,  "when  I  am  no  longer  with  you," 
but  the  depth  of  love  and  trust  in  her  eyes  made  him  hes 
itate,  and  finish  his  sentence  differently — "a  time  when 
they  may  give  you  trouble,"  he  said. 

"They  are  good  boys— that  is,  they  mean  no  harm, 
papa.  When  they  are  older  they  will  study  more." 

"Will  they?" 

"  Certainly ,"  said  Anne,  with  confidence.  "I  did. 
And  as  for  Tita,  you  yourself  must  see,  papa,  what  a  re 
markable  child  she  is." 

Douglas  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand.  The  uneasy 
sense  of  trouble  which  always  stirred  within  him  when 
he  thought  of  his  second  daughter  was  rising  to  the  sur 
face  now  like  a  veiled,  formless  shape.  ' '  The  sins  of  the 
fathers,"  he  thought,  and  sighed  heavily. 

Anne  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  begged  him 
to  look  at  her.  ' '  Papa,  speak  to  me,  please.  What  is  it 
that  troubles  you  so  ?" 

"Stand  by  little  Tita,  child,  no  matter  what  she  does. 
Do  not  expect  too  much  of  her,  but  remember  always  her 
—her  Indian  blood, "said  the  troubled  father,  in  a  low 
voice. 

A  flush  crossed  Anne's  face.     The  cross  of  mixed  blood 


ANNE.  21 

in  the  younger  children  was  never  alluded  to  in  the  fam 
ily  circle  or  among1  their  outside  friends.  In  truth,  there 
had  been  many  such  mixtures  on  the  island  in  the  old 
times,  although  comparatively  few  in  the  modern  days  to 
which  William  Douglas's  second  marriage  belonged. 

"  Tita  is  French,"  said  Anne,  speaking  rapidly,  almost 
angrily. 

"She  is  more  French  than  Indian.  Still — one  never 
knows."  Then,  after  a  pause:  "I  have  been  a  slothful 
father,  Anne,  and  feel  myself  cowardly  also  in  thus  shift 
ing  upon  your  shoulders  my  own  responsibilities.  Still, 
what  can  I  do  ?  I  can  not  re-live  my  life ;  and  even  if  I 
could,  perhaps  I  might  do  the  same  again.  I  do  not 
know — I  do  not  know.  We  are  as  we  are,  and  tenden 
cies  dating  generations  back  come  out  in  us,  and  confuse 
our  actions." 

He  spoke  dreamily.  His  eyes  were  assuming  that 
vague  look  with  which  his  children  were  familiar,  and 
which  betokened  that  his  mind  was  far  away. 

' '  You  could  not  do  anything  which  was  not  right, 
father,"  said  Anne. 

She  was  standing  by  his  side  now,  and  in  her  young 
strength  might  have  been  his  champion  against  the  whole 
world.  The  fire-light  shining  out  showed  a  prematurely 
old  man,  whose  thin  form,  bent  drooping  shoulders,  and 
purposeless  face  were  but  Time's  emphasis  upon  the  slen 
der,  refined,  dreamy  youth,  who,  entering  the  domain  of 
doubt  with  honest  negation  s  and  a  definite  desire,  still  wan 
dered  there,  lost  to  the  world,  having  forgotten  his  first 
object,  and  loving  the  soft  haze  now  for  itself  alone. 

Anne  received  no  answer :  her  father's  mind  had  pass 
ed  away  from  her.  After  waiting  a  few  moments  in  si 
lence  she  saw  that  he  was  lost  in  one  of  his  reveries,  and 
sitting  down  again  she  took  up  her  work  and  went  on 
sewing  with  rapid  stitches.  Poor  Anne  and  her  poor 
presents !  How  coarse  the  little  white  shirts  for  Louis 
and  Andre !  how  rough  the  jacket  for  Gabriel !  How 
forlorn  the  doll!  How  awkwardly  fashioned  the  small 
cloth  slippers  for  Tita !  The  elder  sister  was  obliged  to 
make  her  Christmas  gifts  with  her  own  hands ;  she  had 


22  ANNE. 

no  money  to  spend  for  such  superfluities.  The  poor  doll 
had  a  cloth  face,  with  features  painted  on  a  flat  surface, 
and  a  painful  want  of  profile.  A  little  before  twelve  the 
last  stitch  was  taken  with  happy  content. 

' '  Papa,  it  is  nearly  midnight ;  do  not  sit  up  very  late," 
said  the  daughter,  bending  to  kiss  the  father's  bent,  brood 
ing  brow.  William  Douglas's  mind  came  back  for  an 
instant,  and  looked  out  through  his  clouded  eyes  upon 
his  favorite  child.  He  kissed  her,  gave  her  his  usual 
blessing,  "May  God  help  the  soul  He  has  created!"  and 
then,  almost  before  she  had  closed  the  door,  he  was  far 
away  again  on  one  of  those  long  journeyings  which  he 
took  silently,  only  his  following  guardian  angel  knew 
whither.  Anne  went  across  the  hall  and  entered  the 
sitting-room;  the  fire  was  low,  but  she  stirred  the  em 
bers,  and  by  their  light  filled  the  four  stockings  hanging 
near  the  chimney-piece.  First  she  put  in  little  round 
cakes  wrapped  in  papers ;  then  home-made  candies,  not 
thoroughly  successful  in  outline,  but  well-flavored  and 
sweet;  next  gingerbread  elephants  and  camels,  and  an 
attempt  at  a  fairy;  lastly  the  contents  of  her  work-bas 
ket,  which  gave  her  much  satisfaction  as  she  inspected 
them  for  the  last  time.  Throwing  a  great  knot,  which 
would  burn  slowly  all  night,  upon  the  bed  of  dying  coals, 
she  lighted  a  candle  and  went  up  to  her  own  room. 

As  soon  as  she  had  disappeared,  a  door  opened  softly 
above,  and  a  small  figure  stole  out  into  the  dark  hall. 
After  listening  a  moment,  this  little  figure  went  silently 
down  the  stairs,  paused  at  the  line  of  light  underneath  the 
closed  study  door,  listened  again,  and  then,  convinced  that 
all  was  safe,  went  into  the  sitting-room,  took  down  the 
stockings  one  by  one,  and  deliberately  inspected  all  their 
contents,  sitting  on  a  low  stool  before  the  fire.  First 
came  the  stockings  of  the  boys ;  each  parcel  was  unroll 
ed,  down  to  the  last  gingerbread  camel,  and  as  deftly  en 
wrapped  again  by  the  skillful  little  fingers.  During  this 
examination  there  was  not  so  much  an  expression  of  in 
terest  as  of  jealous  scrutiny.  But  when  the  turn  of  her 
own  stocking  came,  the  small  face  showed  the  most  pro 
found,  almost  weazened,  solicitude.  Package  after  pack- 


xv< 

ANNE.  23 

age  was  swiftly  opened,  and  its  contents  spread  upon  tha 
mat  beside  her.  The  doll  was  cast  aside  with  contempt, 
the  slippers  examined  and  tried  on  with  critical  care,  and 
then  when  the  candy  and  cake  appeared  and  nothing- 
else,  the  eyes  snapped  with  anger. 

The  little  brown  hand  felt  down  to  the  toe  of  the  stock 
ing:  no,  there  was  nothing  more.  "It  is  my  opinion," 
said  Tita,  in  her  French  island  patois,  half  aloud,  "that 
Annet  is  one  stupid  beast." 

She  then  replaced  everything,  hung  the  stockings  on 
their  nails,  and  stole  back  to  her  own  room ;  here,  by  the 
light  of  a  secreted  candle-end,  she  manufactured  the  fol 
lowing  epistle,  with  heavy  labor  of  brains  and  hand:  . 
"Cher  papa, — I  hav  dreemed  that  Sant  Klos  has  hare- 
ribbans  in  his  pak.  Will  you  ask  him  for  sum  for  your 
little  Tita  ?"  This  not  seeming  sufficiently  expressive,  she 
inserted  "trez  affecsionay"  before  "  Tita,"  and  then,  fold 
ing  the  epistle,  she  went  softly  down  the  stairs  againr  and 
stealing  round  in  the  darkness  through  several  unused 
rooms,  she  entered  her  father's  bedroom,  which  commu 
nicated  with  the  study,  and  by  sense  of  feeling  pinned 
the  paper  carefully  round  his  large  pipe,  which  lay  in  its 
usual  place  on  the  table.  For  William  Douglas  always 
began  smoking  as  soon  as  he  rose,  in  this  way  nullifying, 
as  it  were,  the  fresh,  vivifying  effect  of  the  morning, 
which  smote  painfully  u})on  his  eyes  and  mind  alike ;  in 
the  afternoon  and  evening  he  did  not  smoke  so  steadily, 
the  falling  shadows  supplying  of  themselves  the  atmos 
phere  he  loved.  Having  accomplished  her  little  manoeu 
vre,  Tita  went  back  up  stairs  to  her  own  room  like  a  small 
white  ghost,  and  fell  asleep  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  suc 
cessful  diplomatist. 

In  the  mean  time  Anne  was  brushing  her  brown  hair, 
and  thoughtfully  going  over  in  her  own  mind  the  mor 
row's  dinner.  Her  room  was  a  bare  and  comfortless 
place;  there  was  but  a  small  fire  on  the  hearth,  and  no 
curtains  over  the  windows ;  it  took  so  much  care  and  wood 
to  keep  the  children's  rooms  warm  that  she  neglected  her 
own,  and  as  for  the  furniture,  she  had  removed  it  piece 
by  piece,  exchanging  it  for  broken-backed  worn-out  arti- 


i-  ' 

• 


24  ANNE. 

cles  from  all  parts  of  the  house.  One  leg-  of  the  bed 
stead  was  gone,  and  its  place  supplied  by  a  box  which 
the  old-fashioned  valance  only  half  concealed ;  the  look 
ing-glass  was  cracked,  and  distorted  her  image;  the 
chairs  were  in  hospital  and  out  of  service,  the  young  mis 
tress  respecting  their  injuries,  and  using  as  her  own 
seat  an  old  wooden  stool  which  stood  near  the  hearth. 
Upon  this  she  was  now  seated,  the  rippling  wyaves  of  her 
thick  hair  flowing  over  her  shoulders.  Having  at  last 
faithfully  rehearsed  the  Christmas  dinner  in  all  its 
points,  she  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  rose,  extinguish 
ed  her  light,  and  going  over  to  the  window,  stood  there 
for  a  moment  looking  out.  The  moonlight  came  gleam 
ing  in  and  touched  her  with  silver,  her  pure  youthful 
face  and  girlish  form  draped  in  white.  ' '  May  God  bless 
my  dear  father,"  she  prayed,  silently,  looking  up  to  the 
thick  studded  stars;  uand  my  dear  mother  too,  wher 
ever  she  is  to-night,  in  one  of  those  far  bright  worlds, 
perhaps."  It  will  be  seen  from  this  prayer  that  the 
boundaries  of  Anne  Douglas's  faith  were  wide  enough 
to  include  even  the  unknown. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Heap  on  more  wood!  the  wind  is  chill; 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry -men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe." — WALTER  SCOTT. 

t  CA.N  you  make  out  what  the  child  means  ?"  said 
Douglas,  as  his  elder  daughter  entered  the  study  early 
on  Christmas  morning  to  renew  the  fire  and  set  the 
apartment  in  order  for  the  day.  As  he  spoke  he  held 
Tita's  epistle  hopelessly  before  him,  and  scanned  the  zig< 
zag  lines. 


ANNE.  25 

"She  wants  some  ribbons  for  her  hair,"  said  Anne, 
making  out  the  words  over  his  shoulder.  "Poor  little 
thing !  she  is  so  proud  of  her  hair,  and  all  the  other  girls 
have  bright  ribbons.  But  I  can  not  make  ribbons,"  she 
added,  regretfully,  as  though  she  found  herself  wanting 
in  a  needful  accomplishment.  "Think  of  her  faith  in 
Santa  Klaus,  old  as  she  is,  and  her  writing  to  ask  him ! 
But  there  is  ribbon  in  the  house,  after  all,"  she  added,  sud 
denly,  her  face  brightening.  ' '  Miss  Lois  gave  me  some 
last  month ;  I  had  forgotten  it.  That  will  be  the  very 
thing  for  Tita;  she  has  not  even  seen  it." 

(But  has  she  not,  thou  unsuspicious  elder  sister  ?) 

"Do  not  rob  yourself,  child, "said  the  father,  wearily 
casting  his  eyes  over  the  slip  of  paper  again.  ' '  What 
spelling !  The  English  is  bad,  but  the  French  worse." 

' '  That  is  because  she  has  no  French  teacher,  papa ;  and 
you  know  I  do  not  allow  her  to  speak  the  island  patois, 
lest  it  should  corrupt  the  little  she  knows." 

"But  she' does  speak  it;  she  always  talks  patois  when 
she  is  alone  with  me." 

"Does  she  ?"  said  Anne,  in  astonishment.  "  I  had  no 
idea  of  that.  But  you  might  correct  her,  papa." 

'  "  I  can  never  correct  her  in  any  way,"  replied  Douglas, 
gloomily ;  and  then  Anne,  seeing  that  he  was  on  the 
threshold  of  one  of  his  dark  moods,  lighted  his  pipe, 
stirred  the  fire  into  a  cheery  blaze,  and  wenjt  out  to  get  a 
cup  of  coffe£  for  him.  For  the  Irish  soldier's  wife  was 
already  at  work  in  the  kitchen,  having  been  to  mass  in 
the  cold  gray  dawn,  down  on  her  two  knees  on  the  hard 
floor,  repentant  for  all  her  sins,  and  ref ulgently  content 
in  the  absolution  which  wiped  out  the  old  score  (and 
left  place  for  a  new  one).  After  taking  in  the  coffee, 
Anne  ran  up  to  her  own  room,  brought  down  the  ribbon, 
and  placed  it  in  Tita's  stocking ;  she  then  made  up  the 
fire  with  light- wood,  and  set  about  decorating  the  walls 
with  wreaths  of  evergreen  as  the  patter  of  the  little  boys' 
feet  was  heard  on  the  old  stairway.  The  breakfast  table 
was  noisy  that  morning.  Tita  had  inspected  her  ribbons 
demurely,  and  wondered  how  Santa  Klaus  knew  her  fa 
vorite  colors  so  well.  Anne  glanced  toward  her  father, 


26  ANNE. 

and  smiled ;  but  the  father's  face  showed  doubt,  and  did 
not  respond.  While  they  were  still  at  the  table  the  door 
opened,  and  a  tall  figure  entered,  muffled  in  furs.  ' '  Miss 
Lois!"  cried  the  boys.  "Hurrah!  See  our  presents, 
Miss  Lois."  They  danced  round  her  while  she  removed 
her  wrappings,  and  kept  up  such  a  noise  that  no  one 
could  speak.  Miss  Lois,  viewed  without  her  cloak  and 
hood,  was  a  tall,  angular  wromaii,  past  middle  age,  with 
sharp  features,  thin  brown  hair  tinged  with  gray,  and 
pale  blue  eyes  shielded  by  spectacles.  She  kissed  Anne 
first  with  evident  affection,  and  afterward  the  children 
with  business-like  promptitude;  then  she  shook  hands 
with  William  Douglas.  ' '  I  wish  you  a  happy  Christ 
mas,  doctor,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Lois,"  said  Douglas,  holding  her  hand  in 
his  an  instant  or  two  longer  than  usual. 

A  faint  color  rose  in  Miss  Lois's  cheeks.  When  she 
was  young  she  had  one  of  those  exquisitely  delicate  com 
plexions  which  seem  to  belong  to  some  parts  of  New 
England;  even  now  color  would  rise  unexpectedly  in 
her  cheeks,  much  to  her  annoyance :  she  wondered  why 
wrinkles  did  not  keep  it  down.  But  New  England 
knows  her  own.  The  creamy  skins  of  the  South,  with 
their  brown  shadows  under  the  eyes,  the  rich  colors  of 
the  West,  even  the  calm  white  complexions  that  are 
bred  and  long  retained  in  cities,  all  fade  before  this  faint 
healthy  bloom  on  old  New  England's  cheeks^  like  winter- 
apples. 

Miss  Lois  inspected  the  boys'  presents  with  exact  atten 
tion,  and  added  some  gifts  of  her  own,  which  filled  the 
room  with  a  more  jubilant  uproar  than  before.  Tita,  in 
the  mean  while,  remained  quietly  seated  at  the  table,  eat 
ing  her  breakfast;  she  took  very  small  mouthfuls,  and 
never  hurried  herself.  She  said  she  liked  to  taste  things, 
and  that  only  snapping  dogs,  like  the  boys,  for  instance, 
gulped  their  food  in  a  mass. 

"I  gave  her  the  ribbons;  do  not  say  anything,"  whis 
pered  Anne,  in  Miss  Lois's  ear,  as  she  saw  the  spectacled 
eyes  turning  toward  Tita's  corner.  Miss  Lois  frowned, 
and  put  back  into  her  pocket  a  small  parcel  she  was  tak- 


ANNE.  27 

ing  out.  She  had  forgiven  Dr.  Douglas  the  existence  of  ! 
the  boys,  but  she  never  could  forgive  the  existence  of  Tita. 
Once  Anne  had  asked  about  Angelique.  ' '  I  was  but  a 
child  when  she  died,  Miss  Lois,"  said  she,  "  so  my  recol 
lection  of  her  may  not  be  accurate ;  but  I  know  that  I 
thought  her  very  beautiful.  Does  Tita  look  like  her  ?" 

"Angelique  Lafontaine  was  beautiful — in  her  way," 
replied  Miss  Lois.  "  I  do  not  say  that  I  admire  that  way, 
mind  you." 

'And  Tita?" 

'Tita  is  hideous." 

'  Oh,  Miss  Lois !" 

'She  is,  child.     She  is  dwarfish,  black,  and  sly." 

'I  do  not  think  she  is  sly,"  replied  Anne,  with  heat. 
"And  although  she  is  dark  and  small,  still,  sometimes — 

' '  That,  for  your  beauty  of  '  sometimes !'  "  said  Miss  Lois, 
snapping  her  fingers.  "  Give  me  a  girl  who  is  pretty  in 
the  morning  as  well  as  by  candle-light,  one  who  has  a 
nice,  white,  well-born,  down-East  face,  and  none  of  your 
Western-border  moiigrelosities !" 

But  this  last  phrase  she  uttered  under  her  breath.  She 
was  ever  mindful  of  Anne's  tender  love  for  her  father, 
and  the  severity  with  which  she  herself,  as  a  contempo 
rary,  had  judged  him  was  never  revealed  to  the  child. 

At  half  past  ten  the  Douglas  family  were  all  in  their 
places  in  the  little  fort  chapel.  It  was  a  bright  but  bit 
terly  cold  day,  and  the  members  of  the  small  congrega 
tion  came  enveloped  in  shaggy  furs  like  bears,  shedding 
their  skins  at  the  door,  where  they  lay  in  a  pile  near  the 
stove,  ready  for  the  return  homeward.  The  military 
trappings  of  the  officers  brightened  the  upper  benches, 
the  uniforms  of  the  common  soldiers  filled  the  space  be 
hind  ;  on  the  side  benches  sat  the  few  Protestants  of  the 
village,  denominational  prejudices  unknown  or  forgotten 
in  this  far-away  spot  in  the  wilderness.  The  chaplain,  the 
Reverend  James  Gastoii — a  man  who  lived  in  peace  with 
all  the  world,  with  Pere  Michaux,  the  Catholic  priest,  and 
William  Douglas,  the  deist — gazed  round  upon  his  flock 
with  a  benignant  air,  which  brightened  into  affection  as 
Anne's  voice  took  up  the  song  of  the  angels,  singing, 


28  ANNE. 

amid  the  ice  and  snow  of  a  new  world,  the  strain  the 
shepherds  heard  on  the  plains  of  Palestine. 

"Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace, 
good-will  toward  men, "sang  Anne,  with  all  her  young 
heart.  And  Miss  Lois,  sitting  with  folded  hands,  and 
head  held  stiffly  erect,  saw  her  wreath  in  the  place  of  hon 
or  over  the  altar,  and  was  touched  first  with  pride  and 
then  with  a  slight  feeling  of  awe.  She  did  not  believe 
that  one  part  of  the  church  was  more  sacred  than  anoth 
er — she  could  not ;  hut  being  a  High-Church  Episcopalian 
now,  she  said  to  herself  that  she  ought  to ;  she  even  had 
appalling  visions  of  herself,  sometimes,  going  as  far  as 
Rome.  But  the  old  spirit  of  Calvinism  was  still  on  the 
ground,  ready  for  many  a  wrestling  match  yet;  and 
stronger  than  all  else  were  the  old  associations  connected 
with  the  square  white  meeting-house  of  her  youth,  which 
held  their  place  undisturbed  down  below  all  these  upper 
currents  of  a  new  faith.  William  Douglas  was  also  a 
New-Englander,  brought  up  strictly  in  the  creed  of  his 
fathers ;  but  as  Miss  Lois's  change  of  creed  was  owing  to 
a  change  of  position,  as  some  Northern  birds  turn  their 
snow-color  to  a  darker  hue  when  taken  away  from  arctic 
regions,  so  his  was  one  purely  of  mind,  owing  to  nothing 
but  the  processes  of  thought  within  him.  He  had  drift 
ed  away  from  all  creeds,  save  in  one  article :  he  believed 
in  a  Creator.  To  this  great  Creator's  praise,  and  in  wor 
ship  of  Him,  he  now  poured  forth  his  harmonies,  the  pur 
est  homage  he  could  offer,  "unless,"  he  thought,  "  Anne 
is  a  living  homage  as  she  stands  here  beside  me.  But 
no,  she  is  a  soul  by  herself;  she  has  her  own  life  to  live, 
her  own  worship  to  offer;  I  must  not  call  her  mine. 
That  she  is  my  daughter  is  naught  to  me  save  a  great 
blessing.  I  can  love  her  with  a  human  father's  love, 
and  thank  God  for  her  affection.  But  that  is  all." 

So  he  played  his  sweetest  music,  and  Miss  Lois  fervent 
ly  prayed,  and  made  no  mistake  in  the  order  of  her  pray 
ers.  She  liked  to  have  a  vocal  part  in  the  service.  It 
was  a  pleasure  to  herself  to  hear  her  own  voice  lifted  up, 
even  as  a  miserable  sinner ;  for  at  home  in  the  old  white 
meeting-house  all  expression  had  been  denied  to  her,  the 


ANNE.  29 

small  outlet  of  the  Psalms  being  of  little  avail  to  a  person 
who  could  not  sing.  This  dumbness  stifled  her,  and  she 
had  often  said  to  herself  that  the  men  would  never  have 
endured  it  either  if  they  had  not  had  the  prayer-meetings 
as  a  safety-valve.  The  three  boys  were  penned  in  at  Miss 
Lois's  side,  within  reach  of  her  tapping  finger.  They  had 
decided  to  attend  service  on  account  of  the  evergreens 
and  Anne's  singing,  although  they,  as  well  as  Tita,  be 
longed  in  reality  to  the  flock  of  Father  Michaux.  Anne 
never  interfered  with  this  division  of  the  family;  she 
considered  it  the  one  tie  which  bound  the  children  to  the 
memory  of  their  mother ;  but  Miss  Lois  shook  her  head 
over  it,  and  sighed  ominously.  The  boys  were,  in  fact, 
three  little  heathen ;  but  Tita  wras  a  devout  Roman  Cath 
olic,  and  observed  all  the  feast  and  fast  days  of  the  Church, 
to  the  not  infrequent  disturbance  of  the  young  mistress  of 
the  household,  to  whom  a  feast-day  was  oftentimes  an  oc 
casion  bristling  with  difficulty.  But  to-day,  in  honor  of 
Christmas,  the  usual  frugal  dinner  had  been  made  a  ban 
quet  indeed,  by  the  united  efforts  of  Anne  and  Miss  Lois ; 
and  when  they  took  their  seats  at  the  table  which  stood 
in  the  sitting-room,  all  felt  that  it  held  an  abundance  fit 
even  for  the  old  fur-trading  clays,  Miss  Lois  herself  hav 
ing  finally  succumbed  to  that  island  standard  of  compar 
ison.  After  the  dinner  was  over,  while  they  were  sitting 
round  the  fire  sipping  coffee — the  ambrosia  of  the  North 
ern  gods,  who  find  some  difficulty  in  keeping  themselves 
warm — a  tap  at  the  door  was  heard,  arid  a  tall  youth  en 
tered,  a  youth  who  was  a  vivid  personification  of  early 
manhood  in  its  brightest  form.  The  warm  air  w^as  stirred 
by  the  little  rush  of  cold  that  came  in  with  him,  and  the 
dreamy  and  drowsy  eyes  round  the  fire  awoke  as  they 
rested  upon  him. 

"The  world  is  alive,  then,  outside,  after  all,"  said  Miss 
Lois,  briskly  straightening  herself  in  her  chair,  and  tak 
ing  out  her  knitting.  "How  do  you  do,  Erastus  ?" 

But  her  greeting  was  drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  boys, 
who  had  been  asleep  together  on  the  rug  in  a  tangled 
knot,  like  three  young  bears,  but  now,  broadly  awake 
again,  were  jumping  round  the  iiewr-comer,  displaying 


30  ANNE. 

their  gifts  and  demanding  admiration.  Disentangling 
himself  from  them  with  a  skill  which  showed  a  long  ex 
perience  in  their  modes  of  twisting,  the  young  man  made 
his  way  up  to  Anne,  and,  with  a  smile  and  bow  to  Dr. 
Douglas  and  Miss  Lois,  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"You  were  not  at  church  this  morning/'  said  the  girl, 
looking  at  him  rather  gravely,  but  giving  him  her  hand. 

"No,  I  was  not;  but  a  merry  Christmas  all  the  same, 
Annet,"  answered  the  youth,  throwing  back  his  golden 
head  with  careless  grace.  At  this  moment  Tita  came 
forward  from  her  furry  corner,  where  she  had  been  lying 
with  her  head  on  her  arm,  half  asleep,  and  seated  herself 
in  the  red  light  of  the  fire,  gazing  into  the  blaze  with  soft 
indifference.  Her  dark  woollen  dress  was  brightened 
by  the  ribbons  which  circled  her  little  waist  and  knotted 
themselves  at  the  ends  of  the  long  braids  of  her  hair. 
She  had  a  string  of  yellow  beads  round  her  neck,  and  on 
her  feet  the  little  slippers  which  Anne  had  fashioned  for 
her  with  so  much  care.  Her  brown  hands  lay  crossed  on 
her  lap,  and  her  small  but  bold-featured  profile  looked 
more  delicate  than  usual,  outlined  in  relief  like  a  little 
cameo  against  the  flame.  The  visitor's  eyes  rested  upon 
her  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  back  to  Anne. 
"  There  is  to  be  a  dance  to-night  down  in  one  of  the  old 
warehouses,"  he  said,  "and  I  want  you  to  go." 

"A  dance '."cried  the  boys;  "then  we  are  going  too. 
It  is  Christmas  night,  and  we  know  how  to  dance.  See 
here."  And  they  sprang  out  into  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  began  a  figure,  not  without  a  certain  wild  grace  of 
its  own,  keeping  time  to  the  shrill  whistling  of  Gabriel, 
who  was  the  fifer  and  leader  of  the  band. 

Miss  Lois  put  down  her  knitting,  and  disapproved,  for 
the  old  training  was  still  strong  in  her;  then  she  remem 
bered  that  these  were  things  of  the  past,  shook  her  head 
at  herself,  sighed,  and  resumed  it  again. 

"  Of  course  you  will  go,"  said  the  visitor. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  can  go,  East, "  replied  Anne, 
turning  toward  her  father,  as  if  to  see  what  he  thought. 

"Yes,  go,"  said  Douglas— "go,  Annet."  He  hardly 
ever  used  this  name,  which  the  children  had  given  to 


ANNE.  31 

their  elder  sister — a  name  that  was  not  the  French  ' '  An 
nette,  "but,  like  the  rest  of  the  island  xmtois,  a  mispro 
nunciation — ' '  An'net, "  with  the  accent  on  the  first  syl 
lable.  "It  is  Christmas  night,"  said  Douglas,  with  a 
faint  interest  on  his  faded  face ;  "I  should  like  it  to  be  a 
pleasant  recollection  for  you,  Aniiet." 

The  young  girl  went  to  him;  he  kissed  her,  and  then 
rose  to  go  to  his  study;  but  Tita's  eyes  held  him,  and  he 
paused. 

"Will  you  go,  Miss  Lois  ?"  said  Anne. 

"Oh  no,  child,"  replied  the  old  maid,  primly,  adjusting 
her  spectacles. 

"But  you  must  go,  Miss  Lois,  and  dance  with  me," 
said  East,  springing  up  and  seizing  her  hands. 

"Fie,  Erastus!  for  shame!  Let  me  go,"  said  Miss 
Lois,  as  he  tried  to  draw  her  to  her  feet.  He  still  bent 
over  her,  but  she  tapped  his  cheek  with  her  knitting-nee 
dles,  and  told  him  to  sit  down  and  behave  himself. 

"I  won't,  unless  you  promise  to  go  with  us,"  he 
said. 

"Why  should  you  not  go,  Lois  ?"  said  Douglas,  still 
standing  at  the  door.  ' '  The  boys  want  to  go,  and  some 
one  must  be  with  them  to  keep  them  in  order." 

"Why,  doctor,  imagine  me  at  a  dancing  party!"  said 
Miss  Lois,  the  peach-like  color  rising  in  her  thin  cheeks 
again. 

"It  is  different  here,  Lois;  everybody  goes." 

"Yes;  even  old  Mrs.  Kendig,"  said  Tita,  softly. 

Miss  Lois  looked  sharply  at  her;  old  Mrs.  Kendig  was 
fat,  toothless,  and  seventy,  and  the  active,  spare  New 
England  woman  felt  a  sudden  wrath  at  the  implied  com 
parison.  Griselda  was  not  tried  upon  the  subject  of  her 
age,  or  we  might  have  had  a  different  legend.  But  Tita 
looked  as  idly  calm  as  a  summer  morning,  and  Miss  Lois 
turned  away,  as  she  had  turned  a  hundred  times  before, 
uncertain  between  intention  and  simple  chance. 

"Very  well,  then,  I  will  go,"  she  said.  "How  you 
bother  me,  Erastus !" 

"No,  I  don't, "said  the  youth,  releasing  her.  "You 
know  you  like  me,  Miss  Lois;  you  know  you  do." 


32  ANNE. 

"Brazen-face!"  said  Miss  Lois,  pushing  him  away. 
But  any  one  could  see  that  she  did  like  him. 

"Of  course  I  may  go,  father  ?"  said  Tita,  without  stir 
ring,  but  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  slowly;  "that  is,  if  Eras- 
tus  will  take  care  of  you." 

"Will  you  take  care  of  me,  Erastus  ?"  asked  the  soft 
voice. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Tita;  of  course  he  will, "said  Miss 
Lois,  shortly.  ' '  He  will  see  to  you  as  well  as  to  the  oth 
er  children." 

And  then  Douglas  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Erastus,  or  Rast,  as  he  was  called,  went  back  to  his 
place  beside  Anne.  He  was  a  remarkably  handsome  youth 
of  seventeen,  with  bright  blue  eyes,  golden  hair,  a  fine 
spirited  outline,  laughing  mouth,  and  impetuous,  quick 
movements;  tall  as  a  young  sapling,  his  figure  was  al 
most  too  slender  for  its  height,  but  so  light  and  elastic 
that  one  forgave  the  fault,  and  forgot  it  in  one  look  at 
the  mobile  face,  still  boyish  in  spite  of  the  maturity  giv 
en  by  the  hard  cold  life  of  the  North. 

' '  Why  have  we  not  heard  of  this  dance  before,  Eras 
tus  ?"  asked  Miss  Lois,  ever  mindful  and  tenacious  of  a 
dignity  of  position  which  no  one  disputed,  but  which  was 
none  the  less  to  her  a  subject  of  constant  and  belligerent 
watchfulness — one  by  which  she  gauged  the  bow  of  the 
shop-keeper,  the  nod  of  the  passing  islander,  the  salute  of 
the  little  half-breed  boys  who  had  fish  to  sell,  and  even 
the  guttural  ejaculations  of  the  Chippewas  who  came  to 
her  door  offering  potatoes  and  Indian  sugar. 

"  Because  it  was  suggested  only  a  few  hours  ago,  up  at 
the  fort.  I  was  dining  with  Dr.  Gaston,  and  Walters 
came  across  from  the  commandant's  cottage  and  told  me. 
Since  then  I  have  been  hard  at  work  with  them,  decora 
ting  and  lighting  the  ball-room." 

"Which  one  of  the  old  shells  have  you  taken  ?"  asked 
Miss  Lois.  ' '  I  hope  the  roof  will  not  come  down  on  our 
heads." 

' '  We  have  Larrabee's ;  that  has  the  best  floor.  And 
as  to  coming  down  on  our  heads,  those  old  warehouses 


ANNE.  33 

are  stronger  than  you  imagine,  Miss  Lois.  Have  you 
never  noticed  their  great  beams  ?" 

' '  I  have  noticed  their  toppling  fronts  and  their  slant 
ing  sides,  their  bulgings  out  and  their  leanings  in,"  re 
plied  Miss  Lois,  nodding  her  head  emphatically. 

* '  The  leaning  tower  of  Pisa,  you  know,  is  pronounced 
stronger  than  other  towers  that  stand  erect,"  said  Rast. 
' '  That  old  brown  shell  of  Larrabee's  is  jointed  together 
so  strongly  that  I  venture  to  predict  it  will  outlive  us  all. 
We  might  be  glad  of  such  joints  ourselves,  Miss  Lois." 

"If  it  will  only  not  come  down  on  our  heads  to-night, 
that  is  all  I  ask  of  its  joints,"  replied  Miss  Lois. 

Soon  after  seven  o'clock  the  ball  opened:  darkness 
had  already  lain  over  the  island  for  nearly  three  hours, 
and  the  evening  seemed  well  advanced. 

"Oh,  Tita!"  said  Anne,  as  the  child  stepped  out  of  her 
long  cloak  and  stood  revealed,  clad  in  a  fantastic  short 
skirt  of  black  cloth  barred  with  scarlet,  and  a  little  scar 
let  bodice,  "that  dress  is  too  thin,  and  besides — 

"She  looks  like  a  circus-rider,"  said  Miss  Lois,  in  dis 
may.  "Why  did  you  allow  it,  Anne  ?" 

"I  knew  nothing  of  it,"  replied  the  elder  sister,  with  a 
distressed  expression  011  her  face,  but,  as  usual,  not  re 
proving  Tita.  "It  is  the  little  fancy  dress  the  fort  ladies 
made  for  her  last  summer  when  they  had  tableaux.  It 
is  too  late  to  go  back  now ;  she  must  wear  it,  I  suppose ; 
perhaps  in  the  crowd  it  will  not  be  noticed." 

Tita,  unmoved,  had  walked  meanwhile  over  to  the 
hearth,  and  sitting  down  on  the  floor  before  the  fire,  was 
taking  off  her  snow-boots  and  donning  her  new  slippers, 
apparently  unconscious  of  remark. 

The  scene  was  a  striking  one,  or  would  have  been  such 
to  a  stranger.  The  lower  floor  of  the  warehouse  had 
been  swept  and  hastily  garnished  with  evergreens  and  all 
the  flags  the  little  fort  could  muster;  at  each  end  on  a 
broad  hearth  a  great  fire  of  logs  roared  up  the  old  chim 
ney,  and  helped  to  light  the  room,  a  soldier  standing 
guard  beside  it,  and  keeping  up  the  flame  by  throwing  on 
wood  every  now  and  then  from  the  heap  in  the  corner 
near  by.  Candles  were  ranged  along  the  walls,  and  lan- 

3 


34  ANNE. 

terns  hung  from  the  beams  above;  all  that  the  island 
could  do  in  the  way  of  illumination  had  been  done.  The 
result  was  a  picturesque  mingling  of  light  and  shade  as 
the  dancers  came  into  the  ruddy  gleam  of  the  fires  and 
passed  out  again,  now  seen  for  a  moment  in  the  paler 
ray  of  a  candle  farther  down  the  hall,  now  lost  in  the 
shadows  which  everywhere  swept  across  the  great  brown 
room  from  side  to  side,  like  broad-winged  ghosts  resting 
in  mid-air  and  looking  down  upon  the  revels.  The  mu 
sic  came  from  six  French  fiddlers,  four  young,  gayly 
dressed  fellows,  and  two  grizzled,  withered  old  men,  and 
they  played  the  tunes  of  the  century  before,  and  played 
them  with  all  their  might  and  main.  The  little  fort,  a 
one-company  post,  was  not  entitled  to  a  band ;  but  there 
were,  as  usual,  one  or  two  German  musicians  among  the 
enlisted  men,  and  these  now  stood  near  the  French  fid 
dlers  and  watched  them  with  slow  curiosity,  fingering 
now  and  then  in  imagination  the  great  brass  instruments 
which  were  to  them  the  keys  of  melody,  and  dreaming 
over  again  the  happy  days  when  they,  too,  played  ' '  with 
the  band."  But  the  six  French  fiddlers  cared  nothing 
for  the  Germans;  they  held  themselves  far  above  the 
common  soldiers  of  the  fort,  and  despised  alike  their 
cropped  hair,  their  ideas,  their  uniforms,  and  the  strict 
rules  they  were  obliged  to  obey.  They  fiddled  away  with 
their  eyes  cast  up  to  the  dark  beams  above,  and  their 
tunes  rang  out  in  that  shrill,  sustained,  clinging  treble 
which  no  instrument  save  a  violin  can  give.  The 
entire  upper  circle  of  society  was  present,  and  a  sprink 
ling  of  the  second ;  for  the  young  officers  cared  more  for 
dancing  than  for  etiquette,  and  a  pretty  young  French 
girl  was  in  their  minds  of  more  consequence  than  even 
the  five  Misses  Macdougall  with  all  their  blood,  which 
must  have  been,  however,  of  a  thin,  although,  of  course, 
precious,  quality,  since  between  the  whole  five  there 
seemed  scarcely  enough  for  one.  The  five  were  there, 
however,  in  green  plaided  delaines  with  broad  lace  col 
lars  and  large  flat  shell-cameo  breastpins  with  scroll-work 
settings :  they  presented  an  imposing  appearance  to  the 
eyes  of  all.  The  father  of  these  ladies,  long  at  rest  from 


ANNE.  35 

his  ledgers,  was  in  his  day  a  prominent  resident  official  of 
the  Fur  Company ;  his  five  maiden  daughters  lived  on  in 
the  old  house,  and  occupied  themselves  principally  in  re 
membering  him.  Miss  Lois  seated  herself  beside  these 
acknowledged  heads  of  society,  and  felt  that  she  was  in 
her  proper  sphere.  The  dance-music  troubled  her  ears, 
but  she  endured  it  manfully. 

"A  gay  scene,"  she  observed,  gazing  through  her 
spectacles. 

The  five  Misses  Macdougall  bowed  acquiescence,  and 
said  that  it  was  fairly  gay;  indeed,  rather  too  gay,  ow 
ing  to  more  of  a  mingling  than  they  approved;  but  no 
thing,  ah!  nothing,  to  the  magnificentTentertainments  of 
times  past,  which  had  often  beeii^described  to  them  by 
their  respected  parent.  (They  never  seemed  to  have  had 
but  one.) 

"Of  course  you  will  dance,  Anne?"  said  Rast  Pro- 
nando. 

She  smiled  an  assent,  and  they  were  soon  among  the 
dancers.  Tita,  left  alone,  followed  them  with  her  eyes 
as  they  passed  out  of  the  fire-light  and  were  lost  in  the 
crowd  and  the  sweeping  shadows.  Then  she  made  her 
way,  close  to  the  wall,  down  to  the  other  end  of  the  long 
room,  where  the  commandant's  wife  and  the  fort  ladies 
sat  in  state,  keeping  up  the  dignity  of  what  might  be 
called  the  military  end  of  the  apartment.  Here  she 
sought  the  brightest  light  she  could  find,  and  placed  her 
self  in  it  carelessly,  and  as  though  by  chance,  to  watch 
the  dancers. 

k '  Look  at  that  child, "  said  the  captain's  wife.  ' '  What 
an  odd  little  thing  it  is !" 

"It  is  Tita  Douglas,  Anne's  little  sister,"  said  Mrs. 
Bryden,  the  wife  of  the  commandant.  ' '  I  am  surprised 
they  allowed  her  to  come  in  that  tableau  dress.  Her 
mother  was  a  French  girl,  I  believe.  Dr.  Douglas,  you 
know,  came  to  the  island  originally  as  surgeon  of  the 
post." 

"There  is  Anne  now,  and  dancing  with  young  Pro- 
nando,  of  course,"  said  the  wife  of  one  of  the  lieutenants. 

' '  Dr.  Gaston  thinks  there  is  no  one  like  Anne  Douglas, " 


36  ANNE. 

observed  Mrs.  Bryden.  "He  has  educated  her  almost 
entirely;  taught  her  Latin  and  Greek,  and  all  sorts  of 
things.  Her  father  is  a  musical  genius,  you  know,  and 
in  one  way  the  girl  knows  all  about  music ;  in  anoth 
er,  nothing  at  all.  Do  you  think  she  is  pretty,  Mrs. 
Cromer  ?" 

Mrs.  Cromer  thought  ' '  Not  at  all ;  too  large,  and — un 
formed  in  every  way." 

"I  sometimes  wonder,  though,  why  she  is  not  pretty," 
said  Mrs.  Bryden,  in  a  musing  tone.  "She  ought  to  be. " 

1 '  I  never  knew  but  one  girl  of  that  size  and  style  who 
was  pretty,  and  she  had  had  every  possible  advantage  of 
culture,  society,  and  foreign  travel;  wore  always  the 
most  elaborately  plain  costumes — works  of  art,  in  a 
Greek  sort  of  way ;  said  little ;  but  sat  or  stood  about  in 
statuesque  attitudes  that  made  you  feel  thin  and  insigni 
ficant,  and  glad  you  had  all  your  clothes  on,"  said  Mrs. 
Cromer. 

"And  was  this  girl  pretty  ?" 

"She  was  simply  superb,"  said  the  captain's  wife. 
"But  do  look  at  young  Pronando.  How  handsome  he 
is  to-night !" 

"An  Apollo  Belvedere,"  said  the  wife  of  the  lieuten 
ant,  who,  having  rashly  allowed  herself  to  spend  a  sum 
mer  at  West  Point,  was  now  living  in  the  consequences. 

But  although  the  military  element  presided  like  a  court 
circle  at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  the  five  Misses  Mac- 
dougall  and  Miss  Lois  like  an  element  of  first  families  at 
the  other,  the  intervening  space  was  well  filled  with  a  mot 
ley  assemblage — lithe  young  girls  with  sparkling  black 
eyes  and  French  vivacity,  matrons  with  a  shade  more  of 
brown  in  their  complexions,  and  withered  old  grandams 
who  sat  on  benches  along  the  walls,  and  looked  on  with 
a  calm  dignity  of  silence  which  never  came  from  Saxon 
blood.  Intermingled  were  youths  of  rougher  aspect  but 
of  fine  mercurial  temperaments,  who  danced  with  all 
their  hearts  as  well  as  bodies,  and  kept  exact  time  with 
the  music,  throwing  in  fancy  steps  from  pure  love  of  it 
as  they  whirled  lightly  down  the  hall  with  their  laughing 
partners.  There  were  a  few  young  men  of  Scotch  descent 


ANNE.  37 

present  also,  clerks  in  the  shops,  and  superintendents  of 
the  fisheries  which  now  formed  the  only  business  of  the 
once  thriving  frontier  village.  These  were  considered 
by  island  parents  of  the  better  class  desirable  suitors  for 
their  daughters— far  preferable  to  the  young  officers  who 
succeeded  each  other  rapidly  at  the  little  fort,  with  at 
tachments  delightful,  but  as  transitory  as  themselves. 
It  was  noticeable,  however,  that  the  daughters  thought 
otherwise.  Near  the  doorway  in  the  shadow  a  crowd  of 
Indians  had  gathered,  while  almost  all  of  the  common 
soldiers  from  the  fort,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  were  in 
the  hall,  attending  to  the  fires  and  lights,  or  acting  as 
self-appointed  police.  Even  Chaplain  Gaston  looked  in 
for  a  moment,  and  staid  an  hour ;  and  later  in  the  even 
ing  the  tall  form  of  Pere  Michaux  appeared,  clad  in  a 
furred  mantle,  a  black  silk  cap  crowning  his  silver  hair. 
Tita  immediately  left  her  place  and  went  to  meet  him, 
bending  her  head  with  an  air  of  deep  reverence. 

"See  the  child— how  theatrical !"  said  Mrs.  Cromer. 

"Yes.  Still,  the  Romanists  do  believe  in  all  kinds  of 
amusements,  and  even  ask  a  blessing  on  it."  said  the  lieu 
tenant's  wife. 

"It  was  not  that— it  was  the  little  air  and  attitude  of 
devoutness  that  I  meant.  See  the  puss  now !" 

But  the  puss  was  triumphant  at  last.  One  of  the 
younger  officers  had  noted  her  solemn  little  salutation  in 
front  of  the  priest,  and  now  approached  to  ask  her  to 
dance,  curious  to  see  what  manner  of  child  this  small 
creature  could  be.  In  another  moment  she  was  whirling 
down  the  hall  with  him,  her  dark  face  flushed,  her  eye's 
radiant,  her  dancing  exquisitely  light  and  exact.  She 
passed  Anne  and  East  with  a  sparkling  glance,  her  small 
breast  throbbing  with  a  swell  of  satisfied  vanity  that  al 
most  stopped  her  breath. 

"There  is  Tita,"  said  the  elder  sister,  rather  anxiously. 
"I  hope  Mr.  Walters  will  not  spoil  her  with  his  flattery." 

"There  is  no  danger;  she  is  not  pretty  enough,"  an 
swered  East. 

A  flush  rose  in  Anne's  face.  "  You  do  not  like  my  lit 
tle  sister,"  she  said. 


38  ANNE. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  dislike  her,"  said  Rast.  "I  could  not 
dislike  anything  that  belonged  to  you"  he  added,  in  a 
lower  tone. 

She  smiled  as  he  bent  his  handsome  head  toward  her 
to  say  this.  She  was  fond  of  Rast ;  he  had  been  her  daily 
companion  through  all  her  life ;  she  scarcely  remember 
ed  anything  in  which  he  was  not  concerned,  from  her 
first  baby  walk  in  the  woods  back  of  the  fort,  her  first 
ride  in  a  dog-sledge  on  the  ice,  to  yesterday's  consultation 
over  the  chapel  evergreens. 

The  six  French  fiddlers  played  on ;  they  knew  not  fa 
tigue.  In  imagination  they  had  danced  every  dance. 
Tita  was  taken  out  on  the  floor  several  times  by  the  of 
ficers,  who  were  amused  by  her  little  airs  and  her  small 
elfish  face :  she  glowed  with  triumph.  Anne  had  but  few 
invitations,  save  from  Rast ;  but  as  his  were  continuous, 
she  danced  all  the  evening.  At  midnight  Miss  Lois  and 
the  Misses  Macdougall  formally  rose,  and  the  fort  ladies 
sent  for  their  wrappings :  the  ball,  as  far  as  the  first  cirr 
cle  was  concerned,  was  ended.  But  long  afterward  the 
sound  of  the  fiddles  was  still  heard,  and  it  was  surmised 
that  the  second  circle  was  having  its  turn,  possibly  not 
without  a  sprinkling  of  the  third  also. 


ANNE.  39 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Wassamequin,  Nashoonon,  and  Massaconomet  did  voluntarily  sub- 
mit  themselves  to  the  English,  and  promise  to  be  willing  from  time  to 
time  to  be  instructed  in  the  knowledge  of  God.  Being  asked  not  to 
do  any  unnecessary  work  on  the  Sabbath  day,  they  answered, '  It  is 
easy  to  them ;  they  have  not  much  to  do  on  any  day,  and  can  well 
take  rest  on  that  day  as  any  other.'  So  then  we,  causing  them  to  un 
derstand  the  articles,  and  all  the  ten  commandments  of  God,  and  they 
freely  assenting  to  all,  they  were  solemnly  received ;  and  the  Court 
gave  each  of  them  a  coat  of  two  yards  of  cloth,  and  their  dinner;  and 
to  them  and  their  men,  every  one  of  them,  a  cup  of  sack  at  their  de 
parture.  So  they  took  leave,  and  went  away." — Massachusetts  Colo 
nial  Records. 

DR.  G ASTON  sat  in  his  library,  studying  a  chess  pro 
blem.  His  clerical  coat  was  oid  and  spotted,  his  table 
was  of  rough  wood,  the  floor  uncarpeted ;  by  right,  Pover 
ty  should  have  made  herself  prominent  there.  But  she 
did  not.  Perhaps  she  liked  the  old  chaplain,  who  showed 
a  fine,  amply  built  person  under  her  reign,  with  florid  com 
plexion,  bright  blue  eyes,  and  a  curly  brown  wig — very 
different  in  aspect  from  her  usual  lean  and  dismal  retinue ; 
perhaps,  also,  she  stopped  here  herself  to  warm  her  cold 
heart  now  and  then  in  the  hot,  bright,  crowded  little 
room,  which  was  hers  by  right,  although  she  did  not  claim 
it,  enjoying  it,  however,  as  a  miserly  money-lender  en 
joys  the  fine  house  over  which  he  holds  a  mortgage,  rub 
bing  his  hands  exultingly,  as,  clad  in  his  thin  old  coat, 
he  walks  by.  Certainly  the  plastering  had  dropped  from 
the  walls  here  and  there ;  there  was  no  furniture  save  the 
tables  and  shelves  made  by  the  island  carpenter,  and  one 
old  leathern  arm-chair,  the  parson's  own,  a  miracle  of 
comfort,  age,  and  hanging  leather  tatters.  But  on  the 
shelves  and  on  the  tables,  on  the  floor  and  on  the  broad 
window-sills,  were  books ;  they  reached  the  ceiling  on  the 
shelves;  they  wainscoted  the  walls  to  the  height  of  sev- 


40  ANNE. 

eral  feet  all  round  the  room ;  small  volumes  were  piled 
on  tli®  narrow  mantel  as  far  up  as  they  could  go  without 
toppling  over,  and  the  tables  were  loaded  also.  Aisles 
were  kept  open  leading  to  the  door,  to  the  windows,  and 
to  the  hearth,  where  the  ragged  arm-chair  stood,  and 
where  there  was  a  small  parade-ground  of  open  floor;  but 
everywhere  else  the  printed  thoughts  held  sway.  The 
old  fire-place  was  large  and  deep,  and  here  burned  night 
and  day,  throughout  the  winter,  a  fire  which  made  the 
whole  room  bright;  add  to  this  the  sunshine  streaming 
through  the  broad,  low,  uncurtained  windows,  and  you 
have  the  secret  of  the  cheerfulness  in  the  very  face  of  a  bar 
ren  lack  of  everything  we  are  accustomed  to  call  comfort. 

The  Reverend  James  Gaston  was  an  Englishman  by 
birth.  On  coming  to  America  he  had  accepted  a  chap 
laincy  in  the  army,  with  the  intention  of  resigning  it  as 
soon  as  he  had  become  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  ways 
of  the  Church  in  this  country  to  feel  at  ease  in  a  parish. 
But  years  had  passed,  and  he  was  a  chaplain  still ;  for  ev 
idently  the  country  parishes  were  not  regulated  according 
to  his  home  ideas,  the  rector's  authority — yes,  even  the 
tenure  of  his  rectorship  —  being  dependent  upon  the 
chance  wills  and  fancies  of  his  people.  Here  was  no  dig 
nity,  no  time  for  pleasant  classical  studies,  and  no  approv 
al  of  them ;  on  the  contrary,  a  continuous  going  out  to 
tea,  and  a  fear  of  off  ending,  it  might  be,  a  warden's  wife, 
who  very  likely  had  been  brought  up  a  Dissenter.  The 
Eeverend  James  Gaston  therefore  preferred  the  govern 
ment  for  a  master. 

Dr.  Gaston  held  the  office  of  post  chaplain,  having  been, 
on  application,  selected  by  the  council  of  administration. 
He  had  no  military  rank,  but  as  there  happened  to  be 
quarters  to  spare,  a  cottage  was  assigned  to  him,  and  as 
he  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  liked  and  respected  by 
all  the  officers  who  had  succeeded  each  other  on  the  lit 
tle  island,  his  position,  unlike  that  of  some  of  his  brethren, 
was  endurable,  and  even  comfortable.  He  had  been  a 
widower  for  many  years ;  he  had  never  cared  to  marry 
again,  but  had  long  ago  recovered  his  cheerfulness,  and 
had  brought  up,  intellectually  at  least,  two  children 


ANNE.  4i 

whom  he  loved  as  if  they  had  been  his  own— the  boy 
Erastus  Pronaiido,  and  Anne  Douglas.  The  children  re 
turned  his  affection  heartily,  and  made  a  great  happiness 
in  his  lonely  life.  The  girl  was  his  good  scholar,  the  boy 
his  bad  one ;  yet  the  teacher  was  severe  with  Anne,  and 
indulgent  to  the  boy.  If  any  one  had  asked  the  reason, 
perhaps  he  would  have  said  that  girls  were  docile  by  na 
ture,  whereas  boys,  having  more  temptations,  required 
more  lenity ;  or  perhaps  that  girls  who,  owing  to  the  con 
stitution  of  society,  never  advanced  far  in  their  studies, 
should  have  all  the  incitement  of  severity  while  those 
studies  lasted,  whereas  boys,  who  are  to  go  abroad  in  the 
world  and  learn  from  life,  need  no  such  severity.  But 
the  real  truth  lay  deeper  than  this,  and  the  chaplain  him 
self  was  partly  conscious  of  it;  he  felt  that  the  founda 
tions  must  be  laid  accurately  and  deeply  in  a  nature  like 
that  possessed  by  this  young  girl. 

"  Good-morning,  uncle,"  said  Anne,  entering  and  put 
ting  down  her  Latin  books  (as  children  they  had  adopted 
the  fashion  of  calling  their  teacher  "uncle").  "Was 
your  coffee  good  this  morning  ?" 

"Ah,  well,  so-so,  child,  so-so,"  replied  the  chaplain, 
hardly  aroused  yet  from  his  problem. 

' '  Then  I  must  go  out  and  speak  to — to — what  is  this 
one's  name,  uncle  ?" 

' '  Her  name  is — here,  I  have  it  written  down — Mrs. 
Evelina  Crangall,"  said  the  chaplain,  reading  aloud  from 
his  note-book,  in  a  slow,  sober  voice.  Evidently  it  was  a 
matter  of  moment  to  him  to  keep  that  name  well  in  his 
mind. 

Public  opinion  required  that  Dr.  Gaston  should  employ 
a  Protestant  servant;  no  one  else  was  obliged  to  con 
form,  but  the  congregation  felt  that  a  stand  must  be  made 
somewhere,  and  -they  made  it,  like  a  chalk  line,  at  the 
parson's  threshold.  Now  it  was  very  well  known  that 
there  were  no  Protestants  belonging  to  the  class  of  serv 
ants  on  the  island  who  could  cook  at  all,  that  talent  being 
con  fined  to  the  French  quarter-breeds  and  to  occasional 
Irish  soldiers'  wives,  none  of  them  Protestants.  The  poor 
parson's  cooking  was  passed  from  one  incompetent  hand 


42  ANNE. 

to  another  —  lake-sailors'  wives,  wandering  emigrants, 
moneyless  forlorn  females  left  by  steamers,  belonging  to 
that  strange  floating  population  that  goes  forever  travel 
ling  up  and  down  the  land,  without  apparent  motive  save 
a  vague  El-Dorado  hope  whose  very  conception  would  be 
impossible  in  any  other  country  save  this.  Mrs.  Evelina 
Crangall  was  a  hollow-chested  woman  with  faded  blue 
eyes,  one  prominent  front  tooth,  scanty  light  hair,  and 
for  a  form  a  lattice-work  of  bones.  She  preserved,  how 
ever,  a  somewhat  warlike  aspect  in  her  limp  calico,  and 
maintained  that  she  thoroughly  understood  the  making 
of  coffee,  but  that  she  was  accustomed  to  the  use  of  a 
French  coffee-pot.  Anne,  answering  serenely  that  no 
French  coffee-pot  could  be  obtained  in  that  kitchen,  went 
to  work  and  explained  the  whole  process  from  the  begin 
ning,  the  woman  meanwhile  surveying  her  with  suspi 
cion,  which  gradually  gave  way  before  the  firm  but  plea 
sant  manner.  With  a  long  list  of  kindred  Evelinas, 
Anne  had  had  dealings  before.  Sometimes  her  teachings 
effected  a  change  for  the  better,  sometimes  they  did  not, 
but  in  any  case  the  Evelinas  seldom  remained  long.  They 
were  wanderers  by  nature,  and  had  sudden  desires  to  vis 
it  San  Francisco,  or  to  ' '  go  down  the  river  to  Newerleens." 
This  morning,  while  making  her  explanation,  Anne  made 
coffee  too.  It  was  a  delicious  cupful  which  she  carried 
back  with  her  into  the  library,  and  the  chaplain,  far  away 
in  the  chess  country,  came  down  to  earth  immediately  in 
order  to  drink  it.  Then  they  opened  the  Latin  books,  and 
Anne  translated  her  page  of  Livy,  her  page  of  Cicero,  and 
recited  her  rules  correctly.  She  liked  Latin ;  its  exactness 
suited  her.  Mrs.  Bryden  was  wrong  when  she  said  that 
the  girl  studied  Greek.  Dr.  Gastoii  had  longed  to  teach 
her  that  golden  tongue,  but  here  William  Douglas  had 
interfered.  ' '  Teach  her  Latin  if  you  like,  .but  not  Greek, " 
he  said.  "  It  would  injure  the  child — make  what  is  call 
ed  a  blue-stocking  of  her,  I  suppose — and  it  is  my  duty  to 
stand  between  her  and  injury." 

"Ah!  ah!  you  want  to  make  a  belle  of  her,  do  you  ?" 
said  the  cheery  chaplain. 

' '  I  said  it  was  my  duty ;  I  did  not  say  it  was  my  wish," 


\ 


ANNE.  43 

replied  the  moody  father.      "If  I  could  have  my  wish,  | 
Anne  should  never  know  what  a  lover  is  all  her  life  long." 

' '  What !  you  do  not  wish  to  have  her  marry,  then  ? 
There  are  happy  marriages.  Come,  Douglas,  don't  be 
morbid." 

"I  know  what  men  are.  And  you  and  I  are  no 
better." 

"But  she  may  love." 

' '  Ah !  there  it  is ;  she  may.  And  that  is  what  I  meant 
when  I  said  that  it  wras  my  duty  to  keep  her  from  making 
herself  positively  unattractive." 

"Greek  need  not  do  that,"  said  Dr.  Gaston,  shortly. 

' '  It  need  not,  but  it  does.  Let  me  ask  you  one  ques 
tion  :  did  you  ever  fall  in  love,  or  come  anywhere  near 
falling  in  love,  with  a  girl  who  understood  Greek  ?" 

"That  is  because  only  the  homely  ones  take  to  it,"  re 
plied  the  chaplain,  fencing  a  little. 

But  Anne  was  not  taught  Greek.  After  Cicero  she 
took  up  algebra,  then  astronomy.  After  that  she  read 
aloud  from  a  ponderous  Shakspeare,  and  the  old  man  cor 
rected  her  accentuation,  and  questioned  her  on  the  mean 
ings.  A  number  of  the  grand  old  plays  the  girl  knew  al 
most  entirely  by  heart ;  they  had  been  her  reading-books 
from  childhood.  The  down-pouring  light  of  the  vivid 
morning  sunshine  and  the  up-coming  white  glare  of  the 
ice  below  met  and  shone  full  upon  her  face  and  figure  as 
she  bent  over  the  old  volume  laid  open  on  the  table  before 
her,  one  hand  supporting  her  brow,  the  other  resting  on 
the  yellow  page.  Her  hands  were  firm,  white,  and  beau  ~ 
tifully  shaped — strong  hands,  generous  hands,  faithful 
hands;  not  the  little,  idle,  characterless,  faithless  palms 
so-common  in  America,  small,  dainty,  delicate,  and  shape 
less,  coming  from  a  composite  origin.  Her  thick  hair, 
brown  as  a  mellowed  chestnut,  with  a  gleam  of  dark  red 
where  the  light  touched  it,  like  the  red  of  November  oak 
leaves,  wras,  as  usual,  in  her  way,  the  heavy  braids  break 
ing  from  the  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  one  by  one,  as 
she  read  on  through  Hamlet.  At  last  impatiently  she 
drew  out  the  comb,  and  they  all  fell  down  over  her  shoul 
ders,  and  left  her  in  momentary  peaye. 


44  ANNE. 

The  lesson  was  nearly  over  when  East  Pronando  ap 
peared  ;  he  was  to  enter  college — a  Western  college  on 
.one  of  the  lower  lakes — early  in  the  spring-,  and  that 
prospect  made  the  chaplain's  lessons  seem  dull  to  him. 
' '  Very  likely  they  will  not  teach  at  all  as  he  does ;  I  shall 
do  much  better  if  I  go  over  the  text-books  by  myself,"  he 
said,  confidentially,  to  Anne.  "  I  do  not  want  to  appear 
old-fashioned,  you  know." 

"Is  it  unpleasant  to  be  old-fashioned  ?  I  should  think 
the  old  fashions  would  be  sure  to  be  the  good  ones,"  said 
the  girl.  "But  I  do  not  want  you  to  go  so  far  beyond 
me,  Rast ;  we  have  always  been  even  until  now.  Will 
you  think  me  old-fashioned  too  when  you  come  back  ?" 

' '  Oh  no ;  you  will  always  be  Anne.  I  can  predict  you 
exactly  at  twenty,  and  even  thirty:  there  is  no  doubt 
about  2/ow." 

"But  shall  I  be  old-fashioned  ?" 

' '  Well,  perhaps ;  but  we  don't  mind  it  in  women.  All 
the  goddesses  were  old-fashioned,  especially  Diana.  You 
are  Diana." 

"Diana,  a  huntress.  She  loved  Endymion,  who  was 
always  asleep, "said  Anne,  quoting  from  her  school-girl 
mythology. 

This  morning  Rast  had  dropped  in  to  read  a  little 
Greek  with  his  old  master,  and  to  walk  home  with  Anne. 
The  girl  hurried  through  her  Hamlet,  and  then  yielded 
the  place  to  him.  It  was  a  three-legged  stool,  the  only 
companion  the  arm-chair  had,  and  it  was  the  seat  for  the 
reciting  scholar ;  the  one  who  was  studying  sat  in  a  niche 
on  the  window-seat  at  a  little  distance.  Anne,  retreating 
to  this  niche,  began  to  rebraid  her  hair. 

"But  she,  within — within — singing  with  enchanting 
tone,  enchanting  voice,  wove  with  a — with  a  golden  shuttle 
the  sparkling  web,"  read  Rast,  looking  up  and  dreamily 
watching  the  brown  strands  taking  their  place  in  the  long 
braid.  Anne  saw  his  look,  and  hurried  her  weaving. 
The  girl  had  thought  all  her  life  that  her  hair  was  ugly 
because  it  was  so  heavy,  and  neither  black  nor  gold  in 
hue;  and  Rast,  following  her  opinion,  had  thought  so 
too :  she  had  told  him  U  was,  many  a  time.  It  was  char- 


ANNE.  45 

acteristic  of  her  nature  that  while  as  a  child  she  had  ad 
mired  her  companion's  spirited,  handsome  face  and  curl 
ing  golden  locks,  she  had  never  feared  lest  he  might  not 
return  her  affection  because  she  happened  to  be  ugly ;  she 
drew  no  comparisons.  But  she  had  often  discussed  the 
subject  of  beauty  with  him.  "I  should  like  to  be  beauti 
ful,"  she  said;  "like  that  girl  at  the  fort  last  summer." 

"Pooh!  it  doesn't  make  much  difference,"  answered 
East,  magnanimously.  "I  shall  always  like  you." 

"That  is  because  you  are  so  generous,  dear." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  answered  the  boy. 

This  was  two  years  before,  when  they  were  fourteen 
and  fifteen  years  old ;  at  sixteen  and  seventeen  they  had 
advanced  but  little  in  their  ideas  of  life  and  of  each  other. 
Still,  there  was  a  slight  change,  for  Anne  now  hurried  the 
braiding;  it  hurt  her  a  little  that  Bast  should  gaze  so 
steadily  at  the  rough,  ugly  hair. 

When  the  Greek  was  finished  they  said  good-by  to  the 
chaplain,  and  left  the  cottage  together.  As  they  crossed 
the  inner  parade-ground,  taking  the  snow  path  which  led 
toward  the  entrance  grating,  and  which  was  kept  shov 
elled  out  by  the  soldiers,  the  snow  walls  on  each  side  ris 
ing  to  their  chins,  Bast  suddenly  exclaimed :  ' '  Oh,  Annet, 
I  have  thought  of  something !  I  am  going  to  take  you 
down  the  fort  hill  on  a  sled.  Now  you  need  not  object, 
because  I  shall  do  it  in  any  case,  although  we  are  grown 
up,  and  I  am  going  to  college.  Probably  it  will  be  the 
last  time.  I  shall  borrow  Bert  Bryden's  sled.  Come 
along." 

All  the  boy  in  him  was  awake ;  he  seized  Anne's  wrist, 
and  dragged  her  through  first  one  cross-path,  then  anoth 
er,  until  at  last  they  reached  the  commandant's  door. 
From  the  windows  their  heads  had  been  visible,  turning 
and  crossing  above  the  heaped-up  snow.  "East,  and 
Anne  Douglas,"  said  Mrs.  Bryden,  recognizing  the  girl's 
fur  cap  and  the  youth's  golden  hair.  She  tapped  on  the 
window,  and  signed  to  them  to  enter  without  ceremony. 
"What  is  it,  Bast  ?  Good-morning,  Anne  ;  what  a  color 
you  have,  child!" 

"Bast  has  been  making  me  run,"  said  Anne,  smiling, 


46  ANNE. 

and  coming  toward  the  hearth,  where  the  fort  ladies  were 
sitting-  together  sewing,  and  rather  lugubriously  recalling 
Christmas  times  in  their  old  Eastern  homes. 

"Throw  off  your  cloak,"  said  Mrs.  Cromer,  "else  you 
will  take  cold  when  you  go  out  again." 

"We  shall  only  stay  a  moment,  "answered  Anne. 

The  cloak  was  of  strong  dark  blue  woollen  cloth,  close 
ly  fitted  to  the  figure,  with  a  small  cape ;  it  reached  from 
her  throat  to  her  ankles,  and  was  met  and  completed  by 
fur  boots,  fur  gloves,  and  a  little  fur  cap.  The  rough 
plain  costume  was  becoming  to  the  vigorous  girl.  "It 
tones  her  down, "  thought  the  lieutenant's  wife ;  ' '  she  real 
ly  looks  quite  well." 

In  the  mean  while  East  had  gone  across  to  the  dining- 
room  to  find  Bert  Bryden,  the  commandant's  son,  and 
borrow  his  sled. 

' '  And  you're  really  going  to  take  Miss  Douglas  down 
the  hill !"'said  the  boy.  "Hurrah !  I'll  look  out  of  the 
side  window  and  see.  What  fun !  Such  a  big  girl  to  go 
sliding!" 

Anne  was  a  big  girl  to  go ;  but  Hast  was  not  to  be  with 
stood.  She  would  not  get  on  the  sled  at  the  door,  as  he 
wished,  but  followed  him  out  through  the  sally-port,  and 
round  to  the  top  of  the  long  steep  fort  hill,  whose  snowy 
slippery  road- track  was  hardly  used  at  all  during  the  win 
ter,  save  by  coasters,  and  those  few  in  number,  for  the  vil 
lage  boys,  French  and  half-breeds,  did  not  view  the  snow 
as  an  amusement,  or  toiling  up  hill  as  a  recreation.  The 
two  little  boys  at  the  fort,  and  what  Scotch  and  New  Eng 
land  blood  there  was  in  the  town,  held  a  monopoly  of  the 
coasting. 

"There  they  go!"  cried  Bert,  from  his  perch  on  the 
deep  window-seat  overlooking  the  frozen.  Straits  and  the 
village  below.  ' '  Mamma,  you  m  ust  let  me  take  you  down 
now;  you  are  not  so  big  as  Miss  Douglas." 

Mrs.  Bryden,  a  slender  little  woman,  laughed.  "Fan 
cy  the  colonel's  horror,"  she  said,  "if  he  should  see  me 
sliding  down  that  hill !  And  yet  it  looks  as  if  it  might  be 
rather  stirring,"  she  added,  watching  the  flying  sled  and 
its  load.  The  sled,  of  island  manufacture,  was  large  and 


ANNE.  47 

sledge-like;  it  carried  two  comfortably.  Anne  held  on 
by  Rast's  shoulders,  sitting  behind  him,  while  he  guided 
the  flying  craft.  Down  they  glided,  darted,  faster  and 
faster,  losing  all  sense  of  everything  after  a  while  save 
speed.  Reaching  the  village  street  at  last,  they  flew  across 
it,  and  out  on  the  icy  pier  beyond,  where  East  by  a  skill 
ful  manosuvre  stopped  the  sled  on  the  very  verge.  The 
fort  ladies  were  all  at  the  windows  now,  watching. 

"How  dangerous!"  said  Mrs.  Bryden,  forgetting  her  ad 
miration  of  a  moment  before  with  a  mother's  irrelevant 
rapidity.  ' '  Albert,  let  me  never  see  or  hear  of  your  slid 
ing  on  that  pier ;  another  inch,  and  they  would  have  gone 
over,  down  on  the  broken  ice  below!1' 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  mamma,  even  if  I  tried,"  replied 
Master  Albert,  regretfully;  "I always  tumble  off  the  sled 
at  the  street,  or  else  run  into  one  of  the  warehouses.  Only 
Rast  Pronaiido  can  steer  across  slanting,  and  out  on  that 
pier." 

' '  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it, "  replied  Mrs.  Bryden ;  ' '  but 
your  father  must  also  give  you  his  positive  commands  on 
the  subject.  I  had  no  idea  that  the  pier  was  ever  at 
tempted." 

"  And  it  is  not,  mamma,  except  by  Hast,"  said  the  boy. 
"Can't  I  try  it  when  I  am  as  old  as  he  is  ?" 

"  Hear  the  child !"  said  Mrs.  Cromer,  going  back  to  her 
seat  by  the  fire ;  ' '  one  would  suppose  he  expected  to  stay 
here  all  his  life.  Do  you  not  know,  Bert,  that  we  are  only 
here  for  a  little  while — a  year  or  two  ?  Before  you  are 
eighteen  months  older  very  likely  you  will  find  yourself 
out  on  the  plains.  What  a  life  it  is !" 

The  fort  ladies  all  sighed.  It  was  a  habit  they  had. — 
They  drew  the  dreariest  pictures  of  their  surroundings  and 
privations  in  their  letters  homeward,  and  really  believed 
them,  theoretically.  In  truth,  there  were  some  privations ; 
but  would  any  one  of  them  have  exchanged  army  life  for 
civilian  ?  To  the  last,  thorough  army  ladies  retain  their 
ways;  you  recognize  them  even  when  retired  to  private 
and  perhaps  more  prosperous  life.  Cosmopolitans,  they 
do  not  sink  into  the  ruts  of  small-town  life;  they  are  nev 
er  provincial.  They  take  the  world  easily,  having  a  plea-  J 


48  ANNE. 

sant,  generous  taste  for  its  pleasures,  and  making-  light  of 
the  burdens  that  fall  to  their  share.  All  little  local  rules 
and  ways  are  nothing  to  them  :  neither  here  nor  anywhere 
are  they  to  remain  long.  With  this  habit  and  manner 
they  keep  up  a  vast  amount  of  general  cheeriness — vast  in 
deed,  when  one  considers  how  small  the  incomes  some- , 
times  are.  But  if  small,  they  are  also  sure. 

"East  Pronando  is  too  old  for  such  frolics,  I  think," 
said  Mrs.  Rankin,  the  lieutenant's  wife,  beginning  anoth 
er  seam  in  the  new  dress  for  her  baby. 

' '  He  goes  to  college  in  the  spring ;  that  will  quiet  him," 
said  Mrs.  Bryden. 

' '  What  will  he  do  afterward  ?  Is  he  to  live  here  ?  At 
this  end  of  the  world — this  jumping-off  place  ?" 

"I  suppose  so;  he  has  always  lived  here.  But  he  be 
longs,  you  know,  to  the  old  Philadelphia  family  of  the 
same  name,  the  Peter  Pronandos." 

' '  Does  he  ?     How  strange !     How  did  he  come  here  ?" 

' '  He  was  born  here :  Dr.  Gaston  told  me  his  history. 
It  seems  that  the  boy's  father  was  a  wild  younger  son  of 
the  second  Peter,  grandson,  of  course,  of  the  original  Pe 
ter,  from  whom  the  family  derive  all  their  greatness — and 
money.  This  Peter  the  third,  only  his  name  was  not  Pe 
ter,  but  John  (the  eldest  sons  were  the  Peters),  wandered 
away  from  home,  and  came  up  here,  where  his  father's 
name  was  well  known  among  the  directors  of  the  Fur 
Company.  John  Pronando,  who  must  have  been  of  very 
different  fibre  from  the  rest  of  the  family,  liked  the  wild 
life  of  the  border,  and  even  went  off  on  one  or  two  long 
expeditions  to  the  Red  River  of  the  North  and  the  Upper 
Missouri  after  furs  with  the  hunters  of  the  Company. 
His  father  then  offered  him  a  position  here  which  w^ould 
carry  with  it  authority,  but  he  curtly  refused,  saying  that 
he  had  no  taste  for  a  desk  and  pen  like  Peter.  Peter  was 
his  brother,  who  had  begun  dutifully  at  an  early  age  his 
life-long  task  of  taking  care  of  the  large  accumulation  of 
land  which  makes  the  family  so  rich.  Peter  was  the 
good  boy  always.  Father  Peter  was  naturally  angry 
with  John,  and  inclined  even  then  to  cross  his  name  off 
the  family  list  of  heirs;  this,  however,  was  not  really 


ANNE.  49 

done  until  the  prodigal  crowned  his  long  course  of  mis 
deeds  by  marrying  the  pretty  daughter  of  a  Scotchman, 
who  held  one  of  the  smaller  clerkships  in  the  Company's 
warehouses  here — only  a  grade  above  the  hunters  them 
selves.  This  was  the  end.  Almost  anything  else  might 
have  been  forgiven  save  a  marriage  of  that  kind.  If 
John  Pronando  had  selected  the  daughter  of  a  flat-boat 
man  on  the  Ohio  River,  or  of  a  Pennsylvania  mountain 
wagoner,  they  might  have  accepted  her — at  a  distance — 
and  made  the  best  of  her.  But  a  person  from  the  rank 
and  file  of  their  own  Fur  Company — it  was  as  though  a 
colonel  should  marry  the  daughter  of  a  common  soldier 
in  his  own  regiment:  yes,  worse,  for  nothing  can  equal 
the  Pronando  pride.  From  that  day  John  Pronando  was 
simply  forgotten — so  they  said.  His  mother  was  dead, 
so  it  may  have  been  true.  A  small  sum  was  settled  upon 
him,  and  a  will  was  carefully  drawn  up  forever  exclud 
ing  him  and  the  heirs  he  might  have  from  any  share  in 
the  estate.  John  did  not  appear  to  mind  this,  but  lived 
on  merrily  enough  for  some  years  afterward,  until  his 
sweet  little  wife  died ;  then  he  seemed  to  lose  his  strength 
suddenly,  and  soon  followed  her,  leaving  this  one  boy, 
Erastus,  named  after  the  maternal  grandfather,  with  his 
usual  careless  disregard  of  what  would  be  for  his  advan 
tage.  The  boy  has  been  brought  up  by  ouf  good  chap 
lain,  although  he  lives  with  a  family  down  in  the  village ; 
the  doctor  has  husbanded  what  money  there  was  careful 
ly,  and  there  is  enough  to  send  him  through  college,  and 
to  start  him  in  life  in  some  way.  A  good  education  he 
considered  the  best  investment  of  all." 

"In  a  fresh-water  college  ?"  said  Mrs.  Cromer,  raising 
her  eyebrows. 

'  *  Why  not,  for  a  fresh-water  boy  ?  He  will  always 
live  in  the  West." 

"He  is  so  handsome,"  said  Mrs.  Rankin,  "that  he 
might  go  Eastward,  captivate  his  relatives,  and  win  his 
way  back  into  the  family  again." 

"He  does  not  know  anything  about  his  family,"  said 
the  colonel's  wife. 

"Then  some  one  ought  to  tell  him." 
4 


50  ANNE. 

' '  Why  ?  Simply  for  the  money  ?  No :  let  him  lead 
his  own  life  out  here,  and  make  his  own  way,"  said  Mrs. 
Bryden,  warmly. 

"What  a  radical  you  are,  Jane!" 

' '  No,  not  a  radical ;  but  I  have  seen  two  or  three  of  the 
younger  Pronandos,  of  the  fourth  generation,  I  mean, 
and  whenever  I  think  of  their  dead  eyes,  and  lifeless, 
weary  manner,  I  feel  like  doing  what  I  can  to  keep  East 
away  from  them." 

"But  the  boy  must  live  his  life,  Jane.  These  very 
Pronandos  whom  you  describe  will  probably  be  sober  and 
staid  at  fifty :  the  Pronandos  always  are.  And  Rast,  aft 
er  all,  is  one  of  them." 

"  But  not  like  them.  He  would  go  to  ruin,  he  has  so 
much  more  imagination  than  they  have." 

"  And  less  stability  ?" 

"Well,  no ;  less  epicureanism,  perhaps.  It  is  the  solid 
good  things  of  life  that  bring  the  Pronandos  back,  after 
they  have  indulged  in  youthful  wildness :  they  have  no 
taste  for  husks." 

Then  the  colonel  came  in,  and,  soon  after,  the  sewing 
circle  broke  up,  Mrs.  Cromer  and  Mrs.  Rankin  returning 
to  their  quarters  in  the  other  cottages  through  the  walled 
snow-paths.  The  little  fort  was  perched  on  the  brow  of 
the  cliff,  overlooking  the  village  and  harbor;  the  win 
dows  of  the  stone  cottages  which  formed  the  officers' 
quarters  commanded  an  uninterrupted  view  of  blue  water 
in  summer,  and  white  ice-fields  in  winter,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  It  could  hardly  have  withstood  a  bom 
bardment  ;  its  walls  and  block-houses,  erected  as  a  defense 
against  the  Indians,  required  constant  propping  and  new 
foundation-work  to  keep  them  within  the  requirements  of 
safety,  not  to  speak  of  military  dignity.  But  the  soldiers 
had  nothing  else  to  do,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  fort  looked 
well,  especially  from  the  water,  crowning  the  green  height 
with  buttressed  majesty.  During  eight  months  of  the 
year  the  officers  played  chess  and  checkers,  and  the  men 
played  fox -and -geese.  The  remaining  four  months, 
which  comprised  all  there  was  of  spring,  summer,  and 
autumn,  were  filled  full  of  out-door  work  and  enjoyment; 


ANNE.  51 

summer  visitors  came,  and  the  United  States  uniform  took 
its  conquering  place,  as  usual,  among  the  dancers,  at  the 
picnics,  and  on  the  fast-sailing  fishing-boats  which  did 
duty  as  yachts,  skimming  over  the  clear  water  in  whose 
depths  fish  could  be  seen  swimming  forty  feet  below. 
These  same  fish  were  caught  and  eaten — the  large  lake 
trout,  and  the  delicate  white-fish,  aristocrat  of  the  fresh 
water  seas;  three-quarters  of  the  population  were  fisher 
men,  and  the  whole  town  drew  its  food  from  the  deep. 
The  business  had  broadened,  too,  as  the  Prairie  States 
became  more  thickly  settled,  namely,  the  salting  and 
packing  for  sale  of  these  fresh-water  fish.  Barrels  stood 
on  the  piers,  and  brisk  agents,  with  pencils  behind  their 
ears,  stirred  the  slow-moving  villagers  into  activity,  as 
the  man  with  a  pole  stirs  up  the  bears.  Fur-bearing 
animals  had  had  their  day ;  it  was  now  the  turn  of  the 
creatures  of  the  deep. 

*  *  Let  us  stop  at  the  church-house  a  moment  and  see 
Miss  Lois,"  said  Hast,  as,  dragging  the  empty  sled  be 
hind  him,  he  walked  by  Anne's  side  through  the  village 
street  toward  the  Agency. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  time,  Rast." 

"Make  it,  then.  Come,  Annet,  don't  be  ill-natured. 
And,  besides,  you  ought  to  see  that  I  go  there,  for  I  have 
not  called  upon  Miss  Lois  this  year." 

"As  this  year  only  began  last  week,  you  are  not  so 
very  far  behind, "  said  the  girl,  smiling.  ' '  Why  can  you 
not  go  and  see  Miss  Lois  alone  ?" 

"  I  should  be  welcome,  at  any  rate;  she  adores  me." 

"Does  she,  indeed!" 

"Yes,  Miss  Douglas,  she  does.  She  pretends  other 
wise,  but  that  is  always  the  way  with  women.  Oh!  I 
know  the  world." 

"You  are  only  one  year  older  than  I  am." 

"In  actual  time,  perhaps;  but  twenty  years  older  in 
knowledge." 

"What  will  you  be,  then,  when  you  come  back  from 
college  ?  An  old  man  ?" 

"By  no  means;  for  I  shall  stay  where  I  am.  But  in 
the  mean  time  you  will  catch  up  with  me." 


54  ANNE. 

New  England,  having  long  ago  chased  out,  shot  down, 
and  exterminated  all  her  own  Indians,  had  become  peace 
ful  and  pious,  and  did  not  agree  with  these  Western 
carriers  of  shot-guns.  Still,  when  there  were  no  more 
Indians  to  come  to  this  island  school,  it  was  of  necessity 
closed,  no  matter  which  side  v/as  right.  There  were  still 
numbers  of  Chippewas  living  on  the  other  islands  and  on 
the  mainland ;  but  they  belonged  to  the  Eoman  Catho 
lic  faith,  and  were  under  the  control  of  Pere  Michaux. 

The  Protestant  church — a  square  New  England  meet 
ing-house,  with  steeple  and  bell — was  kept  open  during 
another  year ;  but  the  congregation  grew  so  small  that 
at  last  knowledge  of  the  true  state  of  affairs  reached  the 
New  England  purses,  and  it  was  decided  that  the  minis 
ter  in  charge  should  close  this  mission,  and  go  south 
ward  to  a  more  promising  field  among  the  prairie  settlers 
of  Illinois.  All  the  teachers  connected  with  the  Indian 
school  had  departed  before  this — all  save  Miss  Lois  and 
her  aunt;  for  Priscilla  Hiiisdale,  stricken  down  by  her 
own  intense  energy,  which  had  consumed  her  as  an  in 
ward  fire,  was  now  confined  to  her  bed,  partially  para 
lyzed.  The  New  England  woman  had  sold  her  farm, 
and  put  almost  all  her  little  store  of  money  into  island 
property.  "I  shall  live  and  die  here,"  she  had  said; 
' '  I  have  found  my  life-work. "  But  her  work  went  away 
from  her;  her  class  of  promising  squaws  departed  with 
their  pappooses  and  their  braves,  and  left  her  scholar- 
less. 

"With  all  the  blessed  religious  privileges  they  have, 
here,  besides  other  advantages,  I  can  not  at  all  understand 
it — I  can  not  understand  it,"  she  repeated  many  times, 
especially  to  Sandy  Forbes,  an  old  Scotchman  and  ferv 
ent  singer  of  psalms. 

"Aweel,  aweel,  Miss  Priscilla,  I  donnot  suppose  ye 
can,"  replied  Sandy,  with  a  momentary  twinkle  in  his  old 
eyes.  ;  . 

While  still  hesitating  over  her  future  course,  illness 
struck  down  the  old  maid,  and  her  life-work  was  at  last 
decided  for  her:  it  was  merely  to  lie  in  bed,  motionless, 
winter  and  summer,  with  folded  hands  and  whatever 


ANNE.  55 

resignation  she  was  able  to  muster.  Niece  Lois,  hitherto 
a  satellite,  now  assumed  the  leadership.  This  would 
seem  a  simple  enough  charge,  the  household  of  two 
women,  poor  in  purse,  in  a  remote  village  on  a  Northern 
frontier.  But  exotics  of  any  kind  require  nursing  and 
vigilance,  and  the  Hinsdale  household  was  an  exotic. 
Miss  Priscilla  required  that  every  collar  should  be  starch 
ed  in  the  New  England  fashion,  that  every  curtain  should 
fall  in  New  England  folds,  that  every  dish  on  the  table 
should  be  of  New  England  origin,  and  that  every  clock 
should  tick  with  New  England  accuracy.  Lois  had 
known  no  other  training;  and  remembering  as  she  did 
also  the  ways  of  the  old  home  among  the  New  Hampshire 
hills  with  a  child's  fidelity  and  affection,  she  went  even 
beyond  her  aunt  in  faithfulness  to  her  ideal ;  and  although 
the  elder  woman  had  long  been  dead,  the  niece  never 
varied  the  habits  or  altered  the  rules  of  the  house  which 
was  now  hers  alone. 

"A  little  New  England  homestead  strangely  set  up 
here  on  this  far  Western  island,'' William  Douglas  had 
said. 

The  church  house,  as  the  villagers  named  it,  was  built 
by  the  Presbyterian  missionaries,  many  of  them  laboring 
with  their  own  hands  at  the  good  work,  seeing,  no  doubt, 
files  of  Indian  converts  rising  up  in  another  world  to  call 
them  blessed.  When  it  came  into  the  hands  of  Miss  Pris 
cilla,  it  came,  therefore,  ready-made  as  to  New  England 
ideas  of  rooms  and  closets,  and  only  required  a  new  ap 
plication  of  white  and  green  paint  to  become  for  her  an 
appropriate  and  rectangular  bower.  It  stood  near  the 
closed  meeting-house,  whose  steeple  threw  a  slow-moving 
shadow  across  its  garden,  like  a  great  sun-dial,  all  day. 
Miss  Lois  had  charge  of  the  key  of  the  meeting-house,  and 
often  she  unlocked  its  door,  went  in,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  aisle,  as  if  to  revive  the  memories  of  the  past. 
She  remembered  the  faith  and  sure  hope  that  used  to  fill 
the  empty  spaces,  and  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  Then 
she  upbraided  herself  for  sighing,  and  sang  in  her  thin 
husky  voice  softly  a  verse  or  two  of  one  of  their  old  psalms 
by  way  of  reparation.  She  sent  an  annual  report  of  the 


56  ANNE. 

condition  of  the  building  to  the  Presbyterian  Board  of 
Missions,  but  in  it  said  nothing  of  the  small  repairs  for 
which  her  own  purse  paid.  Was  it  a  silent  way  of  mak 
ing  amends  to  the  old  walls  for  having  deserted  their 
tenets  ? 

"Cod-fish  balls  for  breakfast  on  Sunday  morning,  of 
course,"  said  Miss  Lois,  "and  fried  hasty-pudding.  On 
Wednesdays  a  boiled  dinner.  Pies  on  Tuesdays  and  Sat 
urdays." 

The  pins  stood  in  straight  rows  on  her  pincushion; 
three  times  each  week  every  room  in  the  house  was  swept, 
and  the  floors  as  well  as  the  furniture  dusted.  Beans 
were  baked  in  an  earthen  pot  on  Saturday  night,  and 
sweet-cake  was  made  on  Thursday.  East  Pronando  often 
dropped  in  to  tea  on  Thursday.  Winter  or  summer, 
through  scarcity  or  plenty,  Miss  Lois  never  varied  her  es 
tablished  routine,  thereby  setting  an  example,  she  said,  to 
the  idle  and  shiftless.  And  certainly  she  was  a  faithful 
guide-post,  continually  pointing  out  an  industrious  and 
systematic  way,  which,  however,  to  the  end  of  time,  no 
French-blooded,  French-hearted  person  will  ever  travel, 
unless  dragged  by  force.  The  villagers  preferred  their 
lake  trout  to  Miss  Lois's  salt  cod-fish,  their  savory  stews 
and  soups  to  her  corned  beef,  their  tartines  to  her  corn- 
meal  puddings,  and  their  eau-de-vie  to  her  green  tea ;  they 
loved  their  disorder  and  their  comfort ;  her  bar  soap  and. 
scrubbing-brush  were  a  horror  to  their  eyes.  They  wash 
ed  the  household  clothes  two  or  three  times  a  year :  was 
not  that  enough  ?  Of  what  use  the  endless  labor  of  this 
sharp-nosed  woman  with  glasses  over  her  eyes  at  the 
church-house  ?  Were  not,  perhaps,  the  glasses  the  con 
sequences  of  such  toil  ?  And  her  figure  of  a  long  lean 
ness  also  ? 

The  element  of  real  heroism,  however,  came  into  Miss 
Lois's  life  in  her  persistent  effort  to  employ  Indian  serv 
ants.  The  old  mission  had  been  established  for  their  con 
version  and  education ;  any  descendant  of  that  mission, 
therefore,  should  continue  to  the  utmost  of  her  ability  the 
beneficent  work.  The  meeting-house  was  closed,  the 
school-house  abandoned,  she  could  reach  the  native  race 


ANNE.  57 

by  no  other  influence  save  personal ;  that  personal  influ 
ence,  then,  she  would  use.  Through  long  years  had  she 
persisted,  through  long  years  would  she  continue  to  per 
sist.  A  succession  of  Chippewa  squaws  broke,  stole,  and 
skirmished  their  way  through  her  kitchen  with  various 
degrees  of  success,  generally  in  the  end  departing  sudden 
ly  at  night  with  whatever  booty  they  could  lay  their  hands 
on.  It  is  but  justice  to  add,  however,  that  this  was  not 
much,  a  rigid  system  of  keys  and  excellent  locks  prevail 
ing  in  the  well-watched  household.  Miss  Lois's  con 
science  would  not  allow  her  to  employ  half-breeds,  who 
were  sometimes  endurable  servants;  duty  required,  she 
said,  that  she  should  have  full-blooded  natives.  And  she 
had  them.  She  always  began  to  teach  them  the  alphabet 
within  three  days  after  their  arrival,  and  the  spectacle  of 
a  tearful,  freshly  caught  Indian  girl,  very  wretched  in 
her  calico  dress  and  white  apron,  worn  out  with  the  ways 
of  the  kettles  and  brasses,  dejected  over  the  fish-balls,  and 
appalled  by  the  pudding,  standing  confronted  by  a  large 
alphabet  on  the  well-scoured  table,  and  Miss  Lois  by  her 
side  with  a  pointer,  was  frequent  and  even  regular  in  its 
occurrence,  the  only  change  being  in  the  personality  of 
the  learners.  No  one  of  them  had  ever  gone  through  the 
letters;  but  Miss  Lois  was  not  discouraged.  Patiently 
she  began  over  again — she  was  always  beginning  over 
again .  And  in  the  mean  time  she  was  often  obliged  not 
only  to  do  almost  all  the  household  work  with  her  own 
hands,  but  to  do  it  twice  over  in  order  to  instruct  the  new 
comer.  By  the  unwritten  law  of  public  opinion,  Dr. 
Gaston  was  obliged  to  employ  only  Protestant  servants ; 
by  the  unwritten  law  of  her  own  conscience,  Miss  Lois 
was  obliged  to  employ  only  Indians.  But  in  truth  she 
did  not  employ  them  so  much  as  they  employed  her. 

Miss  Lois  received  her  young  friends  in  the  sitting- 
room.  There  was  a  parlor  with  Brussels  carpet  and 
hair-cloth  sofa  across  the  hall,  but  its  blinds  were  closed, 
and  its  shades  drawn  down.  The  parlor  of  middle-class 
households  in  the  cold  climate  of  the  Northern  States 
generally  is  a  consecrated  apartment,  with  the  chill  at 
mosphere  and  much  of  the  solemnity  of  a  tomb.  It  may 


58  ANNE. 

be  called  the  high  altar  of  the  careful  housewife;  but 
even  here  her  sense  of  cleanliness  and  dustless  perfec 
tion  is  such  that  she  keeps  it  cold.  No  sacred  fire  burns, 
no  cheerful  ministry  is  allowed ;  everything  is  silent  and 
veiled.  The  apartment  is  of  110  earthly  use — nor  heaven 
ly,  save  perhaps  for  ghosts.  But  take  it  away,  and  the 
housewife  is  miserable ;  leave  it,  and  she  lives  on  content 
edly  in  her  sitting-room  all  the  year  round,  knowing  it  is 
there. 

Miss  Lois's  sitting-room  was  cheery ;  it  had  a  rag-carpet, 
a  bright  fire,  and  double-glass  panes  instead  of  the  heavy 
woollen  curtains  which  the  villagers  hung  over  their 
windows  in  the  winter — curtains  that  kept  out  the  cold, 
but  also  the  light.  Miss  Lois's  curtains  were  of  white 
dimity  with  knotted  fringe,  and  her  walls  were  freshly 
whitewashed.  Her  framed  sampler,  and  a  memorial  pic 
ture  done  with  pen  and  ink,  representing  two  weeping- 
willows  overshadowing  a  tombstone,  ornamented  the  high 
mantel-piece,  and  there  were  also  two  gayly  colored  china 
jars  filled  with  dried  rose-leaves.  They  were  only  wild- 
brier  roses;  the  real  roses,  as  she  called  them,  grew  but 
reluctantly  in  this  Northern  air.  Miss  Lois  never  loved 
the  wild  ones  as  she  had  loved  the  old-fashioned  cinna 
mon-scented  pink  and  damask  roses  of  her  youth,  but  she 
gathered  and  dried  these  leaves  of  the  brier  from  habit. 
There  was  also  hanging  on  the  wall  a  looking-glass  tilted 
forward  at  such  an  angle  that  the  looker-in  could  see  only 
his  feet,  with  a  steep  ascent  of  carpet  going  up  hill  behind 
him.  This  looking-glass  possessed  a  brightly  hued  picture 
at  the  top,  divided  into  two  compartments,  on  one  side 
a  lovely  lady  with  a  large  bonnet  modestly  concealing 
her  face,  very  bare  shoulders,  leg-of-mutton  sleeves,  and 
a  bag  hanging  on  her  arm ;  on  the  other  old  Father  Time, 
scythe  in  hand,  as  if  he  was  intended  as  a  warning  to  the 
lovely  lady  that  minutes  were  rapid  and  his  stroke  sure. 

' '  Why  do  you  keep  your  glass  tilted  forward  so  far  that 
we  can  not  look  in  it,  Miss  Lois  ?"  East  had  once  asked. 

Miss  Lois  did  it  from  habit.  But  she  answered :  "  To 
keep  silly  girls  from  looking  at  themselves  while  they  are 
pretending  to  talk  to  me.  They  say  something,  and  then 


ANNE. 


59 


raise  their  eyes  quickly  to  see  how  they  looked  when  they 
said  it.  I  have  known  them  keep  a  smile  or  a  particular 
expression  half  a  minute  while  they  studied  the  effect — 
ridiculous  calves !" 

"  Calves  have  lovely  eyes  sometimes,"  said  Rast. 

"Did  I  say  the  girls  were  ugly,  Master  Pert  ?  But  the 
homely  girls  look  too. " 

"  Perhaps  to  see  how  they  can  improve  themselves." 

' '  Perhaps, "  said  the  old  maid,  dryly.  ' '  Pity  they  nev 
er  learn !" 

In  the  sitting-room  was  a  high  chest  of  drawers,  an  old 
clock,  a  chintz-covered  settle,  and  two  deep  narrow  old 
rocking-chairs,  intended  evidently  for  scant  skirts ;  on  an 
especial  table  was  the  family  Bible,  containing  the  record 
of  the  Hinsdale  family  from  the  date  of  the  arrival  of  the 
Mayfloicer.  Miss  Lois's  prayer-book  was  not  there ;  it  was 
up  stairs  in  a  bureau  drawer.  It  did  not  seem  to  belong 
to  the  old-time  furniture  of  the  rooms  below,  nor  to  the 
Hinsdale  Bible. 

The  story  of  Miss  Lois's  change  from  the  Puritan  to  the 
Episcopal  ritual  might  to-day  fill  a  volume  if  written  by 
one  of  those  brooding,  self-searching  woman-minds  of 
New  England— those  unconscious,  earnest  egotists  who 
bring  forth  poetry  beautiful  sometimes  to  inspiration, 
but  always  purely  subjective.  And  if  in  such  a  volume 
the  feelings,  the  arguments,  and  the  change  were  all  re 
presented  as  sincere,  conscientious,  and  prayerful,  they 
would  be  represented  with  entire  truth.  Nevertheless, 
30  complex  are  the  influences  which  move  our  lives,  and 
so  deep  the  under-powers  which  we  ourselves  may  not 
always  recognize,  that  it  could  be  safely  added  by  a  man 
of  the  world  as  a  comment  that  Lois  Hinsdale  would 
never  have  felt  these  changes,  these  doubts,  these  con 
flicts,  if  William  Douglas  had  not  been  of  another  creed. 
For  in  those  days  Douglas  had  a  creed — the  creed  of  his 
young  bride. 

"  Miss  Hinsdale,  we  have  come  to  offer  you  our  New- 
Years  good  wishes,"  said  East,  taking  off  his  cap  and 
making  a  ceremonious  bow.  "Our  equipage  will  wait 
outside.  How  charming  is  your  apartment,  madam  I 


60 


ANNE. 


And  yourself — how  Minerva-like  the  gleam  of  the  eye, 
the  motion  of  the  hand,  which — 

"Which  made  the  pies  now  cooling  in  the  pantry, 
East  Pronando,  to  whose  fragrance,  I  presume,  I  owe  the 
honor  of  this  visit." 

' '  Not  for  myself,  dear  madam,  but  for  Anne.  She  has 
already  confided  to  me  that  she  feels  a  certain  sinking 
sensation  that  absolutely  requires  the  strengthening  in 
fluence  of  pie." 

Anne  laughed.  "  Are  you  going  to  stay  long  ?"  she 
asked,  still  standing  at  the  doorway. 

"Certainly,"  replied  East,  seating  himself  in  one  of  the 
narrow  rocking-chairs;  "  I  have  a  number  of  subjects  to 
discuss  with  our  dear  Miss  Lois." 

' '  Then  I  will  leave  you  here,  for  Tita  is  waiting  for  me. 
I  have  promised  to  take  them  all  over  to  Pere  Michaux's 
house  this  afternoon." 

Miss  Lois  groaned — two  short  abrupt  groans  on  differ 
ent  keys. 

"Have  you ?     Then  I'm  going  too," said  East,  rising. 

"  Oh  no,  East;  please  do  not,"  said  the  girl,  earnestly. 
' '  When  you  go,  it  is  quite  a  different  thing — a  frolic  al 
ways." 

"And  why  not?"  said  East. 

"  Because  the  children  go  for  religious  instruction,  as 
you  well  know ;  it  is  their  faith,  and  I  feel  that  I  ought 
to  give  them  such  opportunities  as  I  can  to  learn  what  it 
means." 

"It  means  mummery!"  said  Miss  Lois,  loudly  and 
sternly. 

Anne  glanced  toward  her  old  friend,  but  stood  her 
ground  firmly.  ' '  I  must  take  them , "  she  said ;  "  I  prom 
ised  I  would  do  so  as  long  as  they  were  children,  and 
under  my  care.  When  they  are  older  they  can  choose 
for  themselves." 

1  To  whom  did  you  make  that  promise,  Anne  Douglas  ?" 
'  To  Pere  Michaux." 
'  And  you  call  yourself  a  Protestant !" 
'Yes;  but  I  hope  to  keep  a  promise  too,  dear  Miss 
Lois." 


ANNE.  61 

"  Why  was  it  ever  made  ?" 

"  Pere  Michaux  required  it,  and — father  allowed  it." 

Miss  Lois  rubbed  her  forehead,  settled  her  spectacles 
with  her  first  and  third  fingers,  shook  her  head  briskly 
once  or  twice  to  see  if  they  were  firmly  in  place,  and  then 
went  on  with  her  knitting.  What  William  Douglas  al 
lowed,  how  could  she  disallow  ? 

Rast,  standing  by  Anne's  side  putting  on  his  fur  gloves, 
showed  no  disposition  to  yield. 

"Please  do  not  come,  Rast,"  said  the  girl  again,  lay 
ing  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I  shall  go  to  take  care  of  you." 

"It  is  not  necessary;  we  have  old  Antoine  and  his 
dogs,  and  the  hoys  are  to  have  a  sled  of  their  own.  We 
shall  be  at  home  before  dark,  I  think,  and  if  not,  the  moon 
to-night  is  full." 

"But  I  shall  go,"  said  Rast 

"Nonsense  !"  said  Miss  Lois.  ' '  Of  course  you  will  not 
go;  Anne  is  right.  You  romp  and  make  mischief  with 
those  children  always.  Behave  now,  and  you  shall  come 
back  this  evening,  and  Anne  shall  come  too,  and  we  will 
have  apples  and  nuts  and  gingerbread,  and  Anne  shall 
recite." 

"  Will  you,  Annet  ?     I  will  yield  if  you  promise." 

"  If  I  must,  I  must,"  said  Anne,  reluctantly. 

"Go,  then,  proud  maid;  speed  upon  your  errand. 
And  in  the  mean  time,  Miss  Lois,  something  fragrant 
and  spicy  in  the  way  of  a  reward  now  would  not  come 
amiss,  and  then  some  music." 

Among  the  possessions  which  Miss  Lois  had  inherited 
from  her  aunt  was  a  small  piano.  The  elder  Miss  Hins- 
dale,  sent  into  the  world  with  an  almost  Italian  love  of 
music,  found  herself  unable  to  repress  it  even  in  cold  New 
England;  turning  it,  therefore,  into  the  channel  of  the 
few  stunted  psalms  and  hymns  and  spiritual  songs  of 
the  day,  she  indulged  it  in  a  cramped  fashion,  like  a 
full-flowing  stream  shut  off  and  made  to  turn  a  mill. 
When  the  missionary  spirit  seized  her  in  its  fiery  whirl 
wind,  she  bargained  with  it  mentally  that  her  piano 
should  be  included ;  she  represented  to  the  doubting  eld- 


62  ANNE. 

er  that  it  would  be  an  instrument  of  great  power  among 
the  savages,  and  that  even  David  himself  accompanied 
the  psalms  with  a  well-stringed  harp.  The  elder  still 
doubted ;  he  liked  a  tuning-fork ;  and  besides,  the  money 
which  Miss  Priscilla  would  pay  for  the  transportation 
of  "the  instrument"  was  greatly  needed  for  boots  for 
the  young  men.  But  as  Miss  Priscilla  was  a  free  agent, 
and  quite  determined,  he  finally  decided,  like  many 
another  leader,  to  allow  what  he  could  not  prevent, 
and  the  piano  came.  It  was  a  small,  old-fashioned  instru 
ment,  which  had  been  kept  in  tune  by  Dr.  Douglas,  and 
through  long  years  the  inner  life  of  Miss  Lois,  her  hopes, 
aspirations,  and  disappointments,  had  found  expression 
through  its  keys.  It  was  a  curious  sight  to  see  the  old 
maid  sitting  at  her  piano  alone  on  a  stormy  evening, 
the  doors  all  closed,  the  shutters  locked,  no  one  stirring 
in  the  church-house  save  herself.  Her  playing  was  old- 
fashioned,  her  hands  stiff;  she  could  not  improvise,  and 
the  range  of  the  music  she  knew  was  small  and  narrow, 
yet  unconsciously  it  served  to  her  all  the  purposes  of 
emotional  expression.  When  she  was  sad,  she  played 
"China";  when  she  was  hopeful,  "Coronation."  She 
made  the  bass  heavy  in  dejection,  and  played  the  air  in 
octaves  when  cheerful.  She  played  only  when  she  was 
entirely  alone.  The  old  piano  wTas  the  only  confidant 
of  the  hidden  remains  of  youthful  feeling  buried  in  her 
heart. 

East  played  on  the  piano  and  the  violin  in  an  untrain 
ed  fashion  of  his  own,  and  Anne  sang;  they  often  had 
small  concerts  in  Miss  Lois's  parlor.  But  a  greater  en 
tertainment  lay  in  Anne's  recitations.  These  were  all 
from  Shakspeare.  Not  in  vain  had  the  chaplain  kept 
her  tied  to  its  pages  year  after  year;  she  had  learned, 
almost  unconsciously,  as  it  were,  large  portions  of  the 
immortal  text  by  heart,  and  had  formed  her  own  ideals 
of  the  characters,  who  were  to  her  real  persons,  although 
as  different  from  flesh-and-blood  people  as  are  the  phan 
toms  of  a  dream.  They  were  like  spirits  who  came  at 
her  call,  and  lent  her  their  personality ;  she  could  identi 
fy  herself  with  them  for  the  time  being  so  completely, 


LOIS   HINSDALE. 


ANNE.  63 

throw  herself  into  the  bodies  and  minds  she  had  con 
structed  for  them  so  entirely,  that  the  effect  was  startling, 
and  all  the  more  so  because  her  conceptions  of  the  char 
acters  were  girlish  and  utterly  different  from  those  that 
have  ruled  the  dramatic  stage  for  generations.  Her 
ideas  of  Juliet,  of  Ophelia,  of  Eosalind,  and  Cleopatra 
were  her  own,  and  she  never  varied  them ;  the  very  ear 
nestness  of  her  personations  made  the  effect  all  the  more 
extraordinary.  Dr.  Gaston  had  never  heard  these  reci 
tations  of  his  pupil ;  William  Douglas  had  never  heard 
them ;  either  of  these  men  could  have  corrected  her  errors 
and  explained  to  her  her  mistakes.  She  herself  thought 
them  too  trifling  for  their  notice ;  it  was  only  a  way  she 
had  of  amusing  herself.  Even  East,  her  playmate,  found 
it  out  by  chance,  coming  upon  her  among  the  cedars  one 
day  when  she  was  Ophelia,  and  overhearing  her  speak 
several  lines  before  she  saw  him ;  he  immediately  consti 
tuted  himself  an  audience  of  one,  with,  however,  the  per 
emptory  manners  of  a  throng,  and  demanded  to  hear  all 
she  knew.  Poor  Anne !  the  great  plays  of  the  world  had 
been  her  fairy  tales;  she  knew  no  others.  She  went 
through  her  personations  timidly,  the  wild  forest  her 
background,  the  open  air  and  blue  Straits  her  scenery. 
The  audience  found  fault,  but,  on  the  whole,  enjoyed  the 
performance,  and  demanded  frequent  repetitions.  After 
a  while  Miss  Lois  was  admitted  into  the  secret,  and  dis 
approved,  and  was  curious,  and  listened,  and  shook  her 
head,  but  ended  by  liking  the  portraitures,  which  were  in 
truth  as  fantastic  as  phantasmagoria.  Miss  Lois  had 
never  seen  a  play  or  read  a  novel  in  her  life.  For  some 
time  the  forest  continued  Anne's  theatre,  and  more  than 
once  Miss  Lois  had  taken  afternoon  walks,  for  which  her 
conscience  troubled  her :  she  could  not  decide  whether  it 
was  right  or  wrong.  But  winter  came,  and  gradually 
it  grew  into  a  habit  that  Anne  should  recite  at  the  church- 
house  now  and  then,  the  Indian  servant  who  happened 
to  be  at  that  time  the  occupant  of  the  kitchen  being 
sent  carefully  away  for  the  evening,  in  order  that  her  eye 
should  not  be  guiltily  glued  to  the  key-hole  during  the 
exciting  visits  of  Ophelia  and  Juliet.  Anne  was  always 


64  ANNE. 

reluctant  to  give  these  recitations  now  that  she  had  an 
audience.  ' '  Out  in  the  woods, "  she  said,  ' '  I  had  only  the 
trees  and  the  silence.  I  never  thought  of  myself  at  all." 

' '  But  Miss  Lois  and  I  are  as  handsome  as  trees ;  and  as 
to  silence,  we  never  say  a  word,"  replied  East.  "  Come, 
Aiinet,  you  know  you  like  it." 

"Yes ;  in — in  one  way  I  do." 

"Then  let  us  take  that  way,"  said  Hast. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

— "  Sounding  names  as  any  on  the  page  of  history — Lake  Winnipeg; 
Hudson  Bay,  Ottaway,  and  portages  innumerable ;  Chipeways,  Gens  de 
Terre,  Les  Pilleurs,  the  Weepers,  and  the  like.  An  immense,  shaggy, 
but  sincere  country,  adorned  with  chains  of  lakes  and  rivers,  covered 
with  snows,  with  hemlocks  and  fir-trees.  There  is  a  naturalness  in  this 
traveller,  and  an  unpretendingness,  as  in  a  Canadian  winter,  where  life 
is  preserved  through  low  temperature  and  frontier  dangers  by  furs,  and 
within  a  stout  heart.  He  has  truth  and  moderation  worthy  of  the  father 
of  history,  which  belong  only  to  an  intimate  experience ;  and  he  does 
not  defer  much  to  literature." — THOIIEAU. 

IMMEDIATELY  after  the  early  dinner  the  little  cavalcade 
set  out  for  the  hermitage  of  Pere  Michaux,  which  was  on 
an  island  of  its  own  at  some  distance  from  the  village 
island ;  to  reach  it  they  journeyed  over  the  ice.  The  boys' 
sled  went  first,  Andre  riding,  the  other  two  drawing :  they 
were  to  take  turns.  Then  came  old  Antoine  and  his  dogs, 
wise-looking,  sedate  creatures  with  wide-spread,  awkward 
legs,  big  paws,  and  toes  turned  in.  Rene  and  Lebeau 
were  the  leaders ;  they  were  dogs  of  age  and  character, 
and  as  they  guided  the  sledge  they  also  kept  an  eye  to 
the  younger  dogs  behind.  The  team  was  a  local  one; 
it  was  not  employed  in  carrying  the  mails,  but  was  used 
by  the  villagers  when  they  crossed  to  the  various  islands^ 
the  fishing  grounds,  or  the  Indian  villages  on  the  main 
land.  Old  Antoine  walked  behind  with  Anne  by  his  side : 
she  preferred  to  walk.  Snugly  ensconced  in  the  sledge 
in  a  warm  nest  of  furs  was  Tita,  nothing  visible  of  her 
small  self  save  her  dark  eyes,  which  were,  however,  most 
of  the  time  closed :  here  there  was  nothing-  to  watch.  The 


ANNE.  65 

bells  on  the  dogs  sounded  out  merrily  in  the  clear  air: 
the  boys  had  also  adorned  themselves  with  bells,  and 
pranced  along  like  colts.  The  sunshine  was  intensely 
bright,  the  blue  heavens  seemed  full  of  its  shafts,  the 
ice  below  glittered  in  shining  lines;  on  the  north  and 
south  the  dark  evergreens  of  the. mainland  rose  above  the 
white,  but  toward  the  east  and  west  the  fields  of  ice  ex 
tended  unbroken  over  the  edge  of  the  horizon.  Here 
they  were  smooth,  covered  with  snow ;  there  they  were 
heaped  in  hummocks  and  ridges,  huge  blocks  piled  against 
each  other,  and  frozen  solid  in  that  position  where  the 
wind  and  the  current  had  met  and  fought.  The  at 
mosphere  was  cold,  but  so  pure  and  still  that  breathing 
was  easier  than  in  many  localities  farther  toward  the 
south.  There  was  no  dampness,  no  strong  raw  wind; 
only  the  even  cold.  A  feather  thrown  from  a  house-top 
would  have  dropped  softly  to  the  ground  in  a  straight 
line,  as  drop  one  by  one  the  broad  leaves  of  the  sycamore 
on  still  Indian  summer  days.  The  snow  itself  was  dry ; 
it  had  fallen  at  intervals  during  the  winter,  and  made 
thicker  and  thicker  the  soft  mantle  that  covered  the  wa 
ter  and  land.  When  the  flakes  came  down,  the  villagers 
always  knew  that  it  was  warmer,  for  when  the  clouds 
were  steel-bound,  the  snow  could  not  fall. 

"I  think  we  shall  have  snow  again  to-morrow,"  said 
old  Antoine  in  his  voyageur  dialect.  "Step  forward, 
then,  genteelly,  Kene.  Hast  thou  no  conscience,  Le- 
beau  ?" 

The  two  dogs,  whose  attention  had  been  a  little  distract 
ed  by  the  backward  vision  of  Andre  conveying  something 
to  his  mouth,  returned  to  their  duty  with  a  jerk,  and  the 
other  dogs  behind  all  rang  their  little  bells  suddenly  as 
they  felt  the  swerve  of  the  leaders  back  into  the  track. 
For  there  was  a  track  over  the  ice  toward  Pere  Michaux's 
island,  and  another  stretching  off  due  eastward— the  patli 
of  the  carrier  who  brought  the  mails  from  below ;  besides 
these  there  were  no  other  ice-roads;  the  Indians  and 
hunters  came  and  went  as  the  bird  flies.  Pere  Michaux's 
island  was  not  in  sight  from  the  village;  it  was,  as  the 
boys  said,  round  the  corner.  When  they  had  turned  this 


66  ANNE. 

point,  and  no  longer  saw  the  mission  church,  the  little 
fort,  and  the  ice-covered  piers,  when  there  was  nothing 
on  the  shore  side  save  wild  cliffs  crowned  with  ever 
greens,  then  before  them  rose  a  low  island  with  its  hare 
summer  trees,  its  one  weather-beaten  house,  a  straight 
line  of  smoke  coming  from  its  chimney.  It  was  still  a 
mile  distant,  but  the  boys  ran  along  with  new  vigor.  No 
one  wished  to  ride ;  Andre,  leaving  his  place,  took  hold 
with  the  others,  and  the  empty  sled  went  on  toward  the 
hermitage  at  a  fine  pace. 

"You  could  repose  yourself  there,  mademoiselle,"  said 
Antoine,  who  never  thoroughly  approved  the  walking 
upon  her  own  two  feet  kept  up — nay,  even  enjoyed — by 
this  vigorous  girl  at  his  side.  Tita's  ideas  were  more  to 
his  mind. 

' '  But  I  like  it, "  said  Anne,  smiling.  ' '  It  makes  me  feel 
warm  and  strong,  all  awake  and  joyous,  as  though  I  had* 
just  heard  some  delightful  news." 

"  But  the  delightful  news  in  reality,  mademoiselle — one 
hears  not  much  of  it  up  here,  as  I  say  to  Jacqueline." 

' '  Look  at  the  sky,  the  ice-fields ;  that  is  news  every  day, 
newly  beautiful,  if  we  will  only  look  at  it." 

' '  Does  mademoiselle  think,  then,  that  the  ice  is  beau 
tiful?" 

"Very  beautiful,"  replied  the  girl. 

The  cold  air  had  brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks,  a 
gleaming  light  to  her  strong,  fearless  eyes  that  looked  the 
sun  in  the  face  without  quailing.  Old  Antoine  caught  the 
idea  for  the  first  time  that  she  might,  perhaps,  be  beautiful 
some  day,  and  that  night,  before  his  fire,  he  repeated  the 
idea  to  his  wife. 

"Bah!"  said  old  Jacqueline;  "that  is  one  great  error 
of  yours,  my  friend.  Have  you  turned  blind  ?" 

"I  did  not  mean  beautiful  in  my  eyes,  of  course;  but 
one  kind  of  beauty  pleases  me,  thank  the  saints,  and  that 
is,  without  doubt,  your  own,"  replied  the  Frenchman, 
bowing  toward  his  withered,  bright-eyed  old  spouse  with 
courtly  gravity.  ' '  But  men  of  another  race,  now,  like 
those  who  come  here  in  the  summer,  might  they  not  think 
her  passable  ?" 


AXXE.  67 

But  old  Jacqueline,  although  mollified,  would  not  ad 
mit  even  this.  A  good  young-  lady,  and  kind,  it  was  to  be 
hoped  she  would  be  content  with  the  graces  of  piety,  since 
she  had  not  those  of  the  other  sort.  Religion  was  all- 
merciful. 

The  low  island  met  the  lake  without  any  broken  ice 
at  its  edge ;  it  rose  slightly  from  the  beach  in  a  gentle 
slope,  the  snow-path  leading  directly  up  to  the  house  door. 
The  sound  of  the  bells  brought  Pere  Michaux  himself 
to  the  entrance.  "Enter,  then,  my  children,"  he  said; 
"and  you,  Aiitoine,  take  the  dogs  round  to  the  kitchen. 
Pierre  is  there." 

Pierre  was  a  French  cook.  Neither  conscience  nor  con 
gregation  requiring  that  Pere  Michaux  should  nourish 
his  inner  man  with  half-baked  or  cindered  dishes,  he  en 
joyed  to  the  full  the  skill  and  affection  of  this  small-sized 
old  Frenchman,  who,  while  learning  in  his  youth  the 
rules,  exceptions,  and  sauces  of  his  profession,  became 
the  victim  of  black  melancholy  on  account  of  a  certain 
Denise,  fair  but  cold-hearted,  who,  being  employed  in  a 
conservatory,  should  have  been  warmer.  Perhaps  De 
nise  had  her  inner  fires,  but  they  emitted  no  gleam  to 
ward  poor  Pierre ;  and  at  last,  after  spoiling  two  break 
fasts  and  a  dinner,  and  drawing  down  upon  himself  the 
epithet  of  "imbecile,"  the  sallow  little  apprentice  aban 
doned  Paris,  and  in  a  fit  of  despair  took  passage  for 
America,  very  much  as  he  might  have  taken  passage  for 
Hades  via  the  charcoal  route.  Having  arrived  in  New 
York,  instead  of  seeking  a  place  where  his  knowledge, 
small  as  it  was,  would  have  been  prized  by  exiled  French 
men  in  a  sauceless  land,  the  despairing,  obstinate  little 
cook  allowed  himself  to  drift  into  all  sorts  of  incongruous 
situations,  and  at  last  enlisted  in  the  United  States  army, 
where,  as  he  could  play  the  flute,  he  was  speedily  placed 
in  special  service  as  member  of  the  band.  Poor  Pierre ! 
his  flute  sang  to  him  only  "Denise!  Denise!"  But  the 
band-master  thought  it  could  sing  other  tunes  as  well, 
and  set  him  to  work  with  the  score  before  him.  It  was 
while  miserably  performing  his  part  in  company  with  six 
placid  Germans  that  Pere  Michaux  first  saw  poor  Pierre, 


68  ANNE. 

and  recognizing  a  compatriot,  spoke  to  him.  Struck  by 
the  pathetic  misery  of  his  face,  he  asked  a  few  questions 
of  the  little  flute-player,  listened  to  his  story,  and  gave 
him  the  comfort  and  help  of  sympathy  and  shillings,  to 
gether  with  the  sound  of  the  old  home  accents,  sweetest 
of  all  to  the  dulled  ears.  When  the  time  of  enlistment 
expired,  Pierre  came  westward  after  his  priest :  Pere  Mi- 
chaux  had  written  to  him  once  or  twice,  and  the  ex-cook 
had  preserved  the  letters  as  a  guide-hook.  He  showed 
the  heading  and  the  postmark  whenever  he  was  at  a  loss, 
and  travelled  blindly  on,  handed  from  one  railway  con 
ductor  to  another  like  a  piece  of  animated  luggage,  un 
til  at  last  he  was  put  on  board  of  a  steamer,  and,  with 
some  difficulty,  carried  westward ;  for  the  sight  of  the 
water  had  convinced  him  that  he  was  to  be  taken  on 
some  unknown  and  terrible  voyage. 

The  good  priest  was  surprised  and  touched  to  see  the 
tears  of  the  little  man,  stained,  weazened,  and  worn  with 
travel  and  grief ;  he  took  him  over  to  the  hermitage  in 
his  sharp-pointed  boat,  which  skimmed  the  crests  of  the 
waves,  the  two  sails  wing-aiid-wing,  and  Pierre  sat  in  the 
bottom,  and  held  on  with  a  death-grasp.  As  soon  as  his 
foot  touched  the  shore,  he  declared,  with  regained  fluency, 
that  he  would  never  again  enter  a  boat,  large  or  small, 
as  long  as  he  lived.  He  never  did.  In  vain  Pere  Mi- 
chaux  represented  to  him  that  he  could  earn  more  mon 
ey  in  a  city,  in  vain  he  offered  to  send  him  Eastward  and 
place  him  with  kind  persons  speaking  his  own  tongue, 
who  would  procure  a  good  situation  for  him ;  Pierre  was 
obstinate.  He  listened,  assented  to  all,  but  when  the 
time  came  refused  to  go. 

' '  Are  you  or  are  you  not  going  to  send  us  that  cook 
of  yours  ?"  wrote  Father  George  at  the  end  of  two  years. 
"This  is  the  fifth  time  I  have  made  ready  for  him." 

"He  will  not  go,"  replied  Pere  Michaux  at  last;  "it 
seems  that  I  must  resign  myself." 

"  If  your  Pere  Michaux  is  handsomer  than  I  am,"  said 
Dr.  Gaston  one  day  to  Arme,  "it  is  because  he  has  had 
something  palatable  to  eat  all  this  time.  In  a  long  course 
of  years  saleratus  tells." 


ANNE. 


Cv) 


Pere  Michaux  was  indeed  a  man  of  noble  bearing;  hia 
face,  although  benign,  wore  an  expression  of  authority, 
which  came  from  the  submissive  obedience  of  his  flock, 
who  loved  him  as  a  father  and  revered  him  as  a  pope. 
His  parish,  a  diocese  in  size,  extended  over  the  long  point 
of  the  southern  mainland ;  over  the  many  islands  of  the 
Straits,  large  and  small,  some  of  them  unnoted  on  the  map, 
yet  inhabited  perhaps  by  a  few  half-breeds,  others  dotted 
with  Indian  farms ;  over  the  village  itself,  where  stood  the 
small  weather-beaten  old  Church  of  St.  Jean ;  and  over 
the  dim  blue  line  of  northern  coast,  as  far  as  eye  could 
reach  or  priest  could  go.  His  roadways  were  over  the 
water,  his  carriage  a  boat ;  in  the  winter,  a  sledge.  He 
was  priest,  bishop,  governor,  judge,  and  physician;  his 
word  was  absolute.  His  party-colored  flock  referred  all 
their  disputes  to  him,  and  abided  by  his  decisions— ques 
tions  of  fishing-nets  as  well  as  questions  of  conscience, 
cases  of  jealousy  together  with  cases  of  fever.  He  stood 
alone.  He  was  not  propped.  He  had  the  rare  leader's 
mind.  Thrown  away  on  that  wild  Northern  border  ? 
Not  any  more  than  Bishop  Chase  in  Ohio,  Captain  John 
Smith  in  Virginia,  or  other  versatile  and  autocratic  pio 
neers.  Many  a  man  can  lead  in  cities  and  in  camps, 
among  precedents  and  rules,  but  only  a  born  leader  can 
lead  in  a  wilderness  where  he  must  make  his  own  rules 
and  be  his  own  precedent  every  hour. 

The  dogs  trotted  cheerfully,  with  all  their  bells  ring 
ing,  round  to  the  back  door.  Old  Pierre  detested  dogs, 
yet  always  fed  them  with  a  strange  sort  of  conscientious 
ness,  partly  from  compassion,  partly  from  fear.  He  could 
never  accustom  himself  to  the  trains.  To  draw,  he  said, 
was  an  undoglike  thing.  To  see  the  creatures  rush  by 
the  island  on  a  moonlight  night  over  the  white  ice,  like 
iogs  of  a  dream,  was  enough  to  make  the  hair  elevate  it 
self. 

' f  Whose  hair  ?"  East  had  demanded.  ' '  Yours,  or  the 
logs1  ?"  For  young  Pronando  was  a  frequent  visitor  at 
the  hermitage,  not  as  pupil  or  member  of  the  flock,  but 
is  a  candid  young  friend,  admiring  impartially  both  the 
priest  and  his  cook. 


70  ANNE. 

' '  Hast  tliou  brought  me  again  all  those  wide-mouthed 
dogs,  brigands  of  unheard-of  and  never-to-be-satisfied 
emptiness,  robbers  of  all  things  ?"  demanded  Pierre,  ap 
pearing  at  the  kitchen  door,  ladle  in  hand.  •  Antoine's 
leathery  cheeks  wrinkled  themselves  into  a  grin  as  he 
unharnessed  his  team,  all  the  dogs  pawing  and  howl 
ing,  and  striving  to  be  first  at  the  entrance  of  this  do 
main  of  plenty. 

"Hold  thyself  quiet,  Rene.  Wilt  thou  take  the  very 
sledge  in,  Lebeau  ?"  he  said,  apostrophizing  the  leaders. 
But  no  sooner  was  the  last  strap  loosened  than  all  the 
dogs  by  common  consent  rushed  at  and  over  the  little 
cook  and  into  the  kitchen  in  a  manner  which  would  have 
insured  them  severe  chastisement  in  any  other  kitchen 
in  the  diocese.  Pierre  darted  about  among  their  gaunt 
yellow  bodies,  railing  at  them  for  knocking  down  his 
pans,  and  calling  upon  all  the  saints  to  witness  their  ra 
pacity  ;  but  in  the  mean  time  he  was  gathering  togeth 
er  quickly  fragments  of  whose  choice  and  savory  quali 
ties  Rene  and  Lebeau  had  distinct  remembrance,  and  the 
other  dogs  anticipation.  They  leaped  and  danced  round 
him  on  their  awkward  legs  and  shambling  feet,  bit  and 
barked  at  each  other,  and  rolled  on  the  floor  in  a  heap. 
Anywhere  else  the  long  whip  would  have  curled  round 
their  lank  ribs,  but  in  old  Pierre's  kitchen  they  knew 
they  were  safe.  With  a  fiercely  delivered  and  eloquent 
Selection  from  the  strong  expressions  current  in  the  Paris 
of  his  youth,  the  little  cook  made  his  way  through  the 
Snarling  throng  of  yellow  backs  and  legs,  and  emptied 
his  pan  of  fragments  on  the  snow  outside.  Forth  rush 
ed  the  dogs,  and  cast  themselves  in  a  solid  mass  upon 
the  little  heap. 

"Hounds  of  Satan  ?"  said  Pierre. 

"They  are,  indeed,"  replied  Antoine.  "But  leave 
them  now,  my  friend,  and  close  the  door,  since  warmth  is 
a  blessed  gift." 

But  Pierre  still  stood  on  the  threshold,  every  now  and 
then  darting  out  to  administer  a  rap  to  the  gluttons,  or 
to  pull  forward  the  younger  and  weaker  ones.  He  pre 
sided  with  exactest  justice  over  the  whole  repast,  and 


ANNE.  71 

ended  by  bringing  into  the  kitchen  a  forlorn  and  drear 
ily  ugly  young  animal  that  had  not  obtained  his  share 
on  account  of  the  preternaturally  quick  side  snatchings 
of  Lebeau.  To  this  dog  he  now  presented  an  especial 
banquet  in  an  earthen  dish  behind  the  door. 

' '  If  there  is  anything  I  abhor,  it  is  the  animal  called 
dog, "he  said,  seating  himself  at  last,  and  wiping  his 
forehead. 

' '  That  is  plainly  evident, "  replied  old  Antoine,  gravely. 

In  the  mean  time,  Anne,  Tita,  and  the  boys  had  thrown 
off  their  fur  cloaks,  and  entered  the  sitting-room.  Pere 
Michaux  took  his  seat  in  his  large  arm-chair  near  the 
hearth,  Tita  curled  herself  on  a  cushion  at  his  feet,  and 
the  boys  sat  together  on  a  wooden  bench,  fidgeting  un 
easily,  and  trying  to  recall  a  faint  outline  of  their  last 
lesson,  while  Anne  talked  to  the  priest,  warming  first  one 
of  her  shapely  feet,  then  the  other,  as  she  leaned  against 
the  mantel,  inquiring  after  the  health  of  the  birds,  the 
squirrels,  the  fox,  and  the  tameeagle,  Pere  Michaux's  com 
panions  in  his  hermitage.  The  appearance  of  the  room 
was  peculiar,  yet  picturesque  and  full  of  comfort.  It  was 
a  long,  low  apartment,  the  walls  made  warm  in  the  win 
ter  with  skins  instead  of  tapestry,  and  the  floor  carpeted 
with  blankets ;  other  skins  lay  before  the  table  and  fire  as 
mats.  The  furniture  was  rude,  but  cushioned  and  dec 
orated,  as  were  likewise  the  curtains,  in  a  fashion  unique, 
by  the  hands  of  half-breed  women,  who  had  vied  with 
each  other  in  the  work ;  their  primitive  embroidery, 
whose  long  stitches  sprang  to  the  centre  of  the  curtain 
or  cushion,  like  the  rays  of  a  rising  sun,  and  then  back 
again,  was  as  unlike  modern  needle-work  as  the  vase-pic 
tured  Egyptians,  with  eyes  in  the  sides  of  their  heads,  are 
like  a  modern  photograph ;  their  patterns,  too,  had  come 
down  from  the  remote  ages  of  the  world  called  the  New, 
which  is,  however,  as  old  as  the  continent  across  the  seas. 
Guns  and  fishing-tackle  hung  over  the  mantel,  a  lamp 
swung  from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  little  singing-birds 
flew  into  and  out  of  their  open  cages  near  the  windows, 
and  the  tame  eagle  sat  solemnly  on  his  perch  at  the  far 
end  of  the  long  room.  The  squirrels  and  the  fox  were 


72 

visible  in  their  quarters,  peeping  out  at  the  new-comers ; 
but  their  front  doors  were  barred,  for  they  had  broken 
parole,  and  were  at  present  in  disgrace.  The  ceiling  was 
planked  with  wood,  which  had  turned  to  a  dark  cinna 
mon,  hue ;  the  broad  windows  let  in  the  sunshine  on  three 
aides  during  the  clay,  and  at  night  were  covered  with 
heavy  curtains,  all  save  one,  which  had  but  a  single 
thickness  of  red  cloth  over  the  glass,  with  a  candle  behind 
which  burned  all  night,  so  that  the  red  gleam  shone  far 
across  the  ice,  like  a  winter  light-house  for  the  frozen 
Straits.  More  than  one  despairing  man,  lost  in  the  cold 
and  darkness,  had  caught  its  ray,  and  sought  refuge,  with 
a  thankful  heart.  The  broad  deep  fire-place  of  this  room 
was  its  glory :  the  hearts  of  giant  logs  glowed  there :  it  was 
a  fire  to  dream  of  011  winter  nights,  a  fire  to  paint  on  can 
vas  for  Christmas  pictures  to  hang  on  the  walls  of  barren 
furnace-heated  houses,  a  fire  to  remember  before  that 
noisome  thing,  a  close  stove.  Round  this  fire-place 
were  set  like  tiles  rude  bits  of  pottery  found  in  the  vicin 
ity,  remains  of  an  earlier  race,  which  the  half-breeds 
brought  to  Pere  Michaux  whenever  their  ploughs  upturn 
ed  them — arrow-heads,  shells  from  the  wilder  beaches, 
little  green  pebbles  from  Isle  Royale,  agates,  and  frag 
ments  of  fossils,  the  whole  forming  a  rough  mosaic, 
strong  in  its  story  of  the  region.  From  two  high  shelves 
the  fathers  of  the  Church  and  the  classics  of  the  world 
looked  down  upon  this  scene.  But  Pere  Michaux  was 
no  bookworm;  his  books  were  men.  The  needs  and 
faults  of  his  flock  absorbed  all  his  days,  and,  when  the 
moon  was  bright,  his  evenings  also.  ' '  There  goes  Pere 
Michaux,"  said  the  half-breeds,  as  the  broad  sail  of  his 
boat  went  gleaming  by  in  the  summer  night,  or  the  sound 
of  his  sledge  bells  came  through  their  closed  doors ;  "he 
has  been  to  see  the  dying  wife  of  Jean,"  or  "to  carry 
medicine  to  Francois."  On  the  wild  nights  and  the  dark 
nights,  when  no  one  could  stir  abroad,  the  old  priest 
lighted  his  lamp,  and  fed  his  mind  with  its  old-time  nour 
ishment.  But  he  had  nothing  modern ;  no  newspapers. 
The  nation  was  to  him  naught.  He  was  one  of  a  small 
but  distinctly  marked  class  in.  America  that  have  a  dis* 


ANNE.  73 

taste  for  and  disbelief  in  the  present,  its  ideals,  thoughts, 
and  actions,  and  turn  for  relief  to  the  past ;  they  repre 
sent  a  reaction.  This  class  is  made  up  of  foreigners  like 
the  priest,  of  native-horn  citizens  with  artistic  tastes  who 
have  lived  much  abroad,  modern  Tories  who  regret  the 
Revolution,  High-Church  Episcopalians  who  would  like 
archbishops  and  an  Establishment,  restless  politicians  who 
seek  an  empire — in  all,  a  very  small  number  compared 
writh  the  mass  of  the  nation  at  large,  and  not  important 
enough  to  be  counted  at  all  numerically,  yet  not  without 
its  influence.  And  not  without  its  use  too,  its  members 
serving  their  country,  unconsciously  perhaps,  but  power 
fully,  by  acting  as  a  balance  to  the  self -asserting  blatant 
conceit  of  the  young  nation — a  drag  on  the  wheels  of 
its  too-rapidly  speeding  car.  They  are  a  sort  of  Mordecai 
at  the  gate,  and  are  no  more  disturbed  than  he  was  by  be 
ing  in  a  minority.  In  any  great  crisis  this  element  is 
fused  with  the  rest  at  once,  and  disappears ;  but  in  times 
of  peace  and  prosperity  up  it  comes  again,  and  lifts  its 
scornful  voice. 

Pere  Michaux  occupied  himself  first  with  the  boys. 
The  religious  education  of  Louis,  Gabriel,  and  Andre 
was  not  complex — a  few  plain  rules  that  three  colts  could 
have  learned  almost  as  well,  provided  they  had  had  speech. 
But  the  priest  had  the  rare  gift  of  holding  the  attention 
of  children  while  he  talked  with  them,  and  thus  the  three 
boys  learned  from  him  gradually  and  almost  unconscious 
ly  the  tenets  of  the  faith  in  which  their  young  mother 
had  lived  and  died.  The  rare  gift  of  holding  the  atten 
tion  of  boys — O  poor  Sunday-school  teachers  all  over  the 
land,  ye  know  how  rare  that  gift  is ! — ye  who  must  keep 
restless  little  heads  and  hands  quiet  while  some  well- 
meaning  but  slow,  long-winded,  four-syllabled  man  ' '  ad 
dresses  the  children. "  It  is  sometimes  the  superintendent, 
but  more  frequently  a  visitor,  who  beams  through  his 
spectacles  benevolently  upon  the  little  flock  before  him, 
but  has  no  more  power  over  them  than  a  penguin  would 
have  over  a  colony  of  sparrows. 

But  if  the  religion  of  the  boys  was  simple,  that  of  Tita 
was  of  a  very  different  nature ;  it  was  as  complex,  tor- 


74  ANNE. 

tuous,  unresting,  as  personal  and  minute  in  detail,  as 
some  of  those  religious  journals  we  have  all  read,  diaries 
of  every  thought,  pen-photographs  of  every  mood,  won 
derful  to  read,  but  not  always  comfortable  when  translated 
into  actual  life,  where  something  less  purely  self -engross 
ed,  if  even  less  saintly,  is  apt  to  make  the  household 
wheels  run  more  smoothly.  Tita's  religious  ideas  per 
plexed  Anne,  angered  Miss  Lois,  and  sometimes  wearied 
even  the  priest  himself.  The  little  creature  aspired  to  be 
absolutely  perfect,  and  she  was  perfect  in  rule  and  form. 
Whatever  was  said  to  her  in  the  way  of  correction  she 
turned  and  adjusted  to  suit  herself;  her  mental  ingenui 
ty  was  extraordinary.  Anne  listened  to  the  child  with 
wonder ;  but  Pere  Michaux  understood  and  treated  with 
kindly  carelessness  the  strong  selfism,  which  he  often  en 
countered  among  older  and  deeply  devout  women,  but 
not  often  in  a  girl  so  young.  Once  the  elder  sister  asked 
with  some  anxiety  if  he  thought  Tita  was  tending  toward 
conventual  life. 

* '  Oh  no, "  replied  the  old  man,  smiling ;  ' '  anything  but 
that." 

'  But  is  she  not  remarkably  devout  ?" 
'  As  Parisiennes  in  Lent." 
'  But  it  is  Lent  with  her  all  the  year  round." 
'  That  is  because  she  has  not  seen  Paris  yet." 
'  But  we  can  not  take  her  to  Paris,"  said  Anne,  in  per 
plexity. 

"What  should  I  do  if  I  had  to  reply  to  you  always, 
mademoiselle  ?"  said  the  priest,  smiling,  and  patting  her 
head. 

"You  mean  that  I  am  dull  ?"  said  Anne,  a  slight  flush 
rising  in  her  cheeks.  ' '  I  have  often  noticed  that  peo 
ple  thought  me  so." 

' '  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind.  But  by  the  side  of  your 
honesty  we  all  appear  like  tapers  when  the  sun  breaks  in, " 
said  Pere  Michaux,  gallantly.  Still,  Anne  could  not  help 
thinking  that  he  did  think  her  dull. 

To-day  she  sat  by  the  window,  looking  out  over  the  ice. 
The  boys,  dismissed  from  their  bench,  had,  with  the  sa 
gacity  of  the  dogs,  gone  immediately  to  the  kitchen.  The 


ANNE.  75 

soft  voice  of  Tita  was  repeating  something  which  sound 
ed  like  a  litany  to  the  Virgin,  full  of  mystic  phrases,  a  se 
lection  made  by  the  child  herself,  the  priest  requiring  no 
such  recitation,  but  listening,  as  usual,  patiently,  with  his 
eyes  half  closed,  as  the  old-time  school-teacher  listened  to 
Wirt's  description  of  Blennerhasset's  Island.  Pere  Mi- 
chaux  had  no  mystical  tendencies.  His  life  was  too  busy ; 
in  the  winter  it  was  too  cold,  and  in  the  summer  the  sun 
shine  was  too  brilliant,  on  his  Northern  island,  for  mysti 
cal  thoughts.  At  present,  through  Tita's  recitation,  his 
mind  was  occupied  with  a  poor  fisherman's  family  over 
on  the  mainland,  to  whom  on  the  morrow  he  was  go- 
ing  to  send  assistance.  The  three  boys  came  round  on 
the  outside,  and  peered  through  the  windows  to  see  wheth 
er  the  lesson  was  finished.  Anne  ordered  them  back  by 
gesture,  for  they  were  bareheaded,  and  their  little  faces 
red  with  the  cold.  But  they  pressed  their  noses  against 
the  panes,  glared  at  Tita,  and  shook  their  fists.  ' '  It's 
all  ready,"  they  said,  in  sepulchral  tones,  putting  their 
mouths  to  the  crack  under  the  sash,  "and  it's  a  pudding. 
Tell  her  to  hurry  up,  Annet." 

But  Tita's  murmuring  voice  went  steadily  on,  and  the 
Protestant  sister  would  not  interrupt  the  little  Catholic's 
recitation ;  she  shook  her  head  at  the  boys,  and  motioned 
to  them  to  go  back  to  the  kitchen.  But  they  danced  up 
and  down  to  warm  themselves,  rubbed  their  little  red 
ears  with  their  hands,  and  then  returned  to  the  crack, 
and  roared  in  chorus,  ' '  Tell  her  to  hurry  up ;  we  shall 
not  have  time  to  eat  it." 

"True,"  said  Pere  Michaux,  overhearing  this  triple 
remonstrance.  "  That  will  do  for  to-day,  Tita." 

"  But  I  have  not  finished,  my  father." 

"  Another  time,  child." 

;'  I  shall  recite  it,  then,  at  the  next  lesson,  and  learn 
besides  as  much  more ;  and  the  interruption  was  not  of 
my  making,  but  a  crime  of  those  sacrilegious  boys, "said 
Tita,  gathering  her  books  together.  The  boys,  seeing 
Pere  Michaux  rise  from  his  chair,  ran  back  round  the 
house  to  announce  the  tidings  to  Pierre ;  the  priest  carne 
forward  to  the  window. 


ANNE. 


"That  is  the  mail-train,  is  it  not  ?"  said  Anne,  looking 
at  a  black  spot  coming  up  the  Strait  from  the  east. 

"It  is  due,"  said  Pere  Michaux;  "but  the  weather 
has  been  so  cold  that  I  hardly  expected  it  to-day."  He 
took  down  a  spy-glass,  and  looked  at  the  moving  speck. 

Yes,  it  is  the  train.  I  can  see  the  dogs,  and  Denis 
himself.  I  will  go  over  to  the  village  with  you,  I  think. 
I  expect  letters." 

Pere  Michaux's  correspondence  was  large.  From  many 
a  college  and  mission  station  came  letters  to  this  hermit 
of  the  North,  on  subjects  as  various  as  the  writers :  the 
flora  of  the  region,  its  mineralogy,  the  Indians  and  their 
history,  the  lost  grave  of  Father  Marquette  (in  these 
later  days  said  to  have  been  found),  the  legends  of  the 
fur-trading  times,  the  existing  commerce  of  the  lakes,  the 
fisheries,  and  kindred  subjects  were  mixed  with  discussions 
kept  up  with  fellow  Latin  and  Greek  scholars  exiled  at 
far-off  Southern  stations,  with  games  of  chess  played 
by  letter,  with  recipes  for  sauces,  arid  with  humorous 
skirmishing  with  New  York  priests  on  topics  of  the  day, 
in  which  the  Northern  hermit  often  had  the  best  of  it. 

A  hurrah  in  the  kitchen,  an  opening  of  doors,  a  clatter 
ing  in  the  hall,  and  the  boys  appeared,  followed  by  old 
Pierre,  bearing  aloft  a  pudding  enveloped  in  steam,  ex 
haling  fragrance,  and  beautiful  with  raisins,  currants, 
and  citron— rarities  regarded  by  Louis,  Gabriel,  and  Andre 
with  eager  eyes. 

"But  it  was  for  your  dinner,"  said  Anne. 

"It  is  still  for  my  dinner.  But  it  would  have  lasted 
three  days,  and  now  it  will  end  its  existence  more  honor 
ably  in  one,"  replied  the  priest,  beginning  to  cut  generous 
slices. 

Tita  was  the  last  to  come  forward.  She  felt  herself 
obliged  to  set  down  all  the  marks  of  her  various  recita 
tions  in  a  small  note-book  after  each  lesson ;  she  kept  a 
careful  record,  and  punished  or  rewarded  herself  accord 
ingly,  the  punishments  being  long  readings  from  some 
religious  book  in  her  corner,  murmured  generally  half 
aloud,  to  the  exasperation  of  Miss  Lois  when  she  happen 
ed  to  be  present,  Miss  Lois  having  a  vehement  dislike  for 


ANNE.  77 

"sing-song."  Indeed,  the  little,  soft,  persistent  murmur 
sometimes  made  even  Anne  think  that  the  whole  family 
bore  their  part  in  Tita's  religious  penances.  But  what 
could  be  said  to  the  child  ?  Was  she  not  engaged  in  sav 
ing  her  soul  ? 

The  marks  being  at  last  all  set  down,  she  took  her 
share  of  pudding  to  the  fire,  and  ate  it  daintily  and  dream 
ily,  enjoying  it  far  more  than  the  boys,  who  swallowed 
too  hastily;  far  more  than  Anne,  who  liked  the  simplest 
food.  The  priest  was  the  only  one  present  who  appreci 
ated  Pierre's  skill  as  Tita  appreciated  it.  "It  is  deli- 
cieux,"  she  said,  softly,  replacing  the  spoon  in  the  saucer, 
and  leaning  back  against  the  cushions  with  half-closed 
eyes. 

"Will  you  have  some  more,  then  ?"  said  Anne. 

Tita  shook  her  head,  and  waved  away  her  sister  impa 
tiently. 

"She  is  as  thorough  an  epicure  as  I  am,"  said  the 
priest,  smiling ;  "  it  takes  away  from  the  poetry  of  a  dish 
to  be  asked  to  eat  more." 

It  was  now  time  to  start  homeward,  and  Pere  Michaux's 
sledge  made  its  appearance,  coming  from  a  little  islet 
near  by.  Old  Pierre  would  not  have  dogs  upon  his 
shores ;  yet  he  went  over  to  the  other  island  himself  ev 
ery  morning,  at  the  expense  of  much  time  and  trouble, 
to  see  that  the  half-breed  in  charge  had  not  neglected 
them.  The  result  was  that  Pere  Michaux's  dogs  were 
known  as  far  as  they  could  be  seen  by  their  fat  sides,  the 
only  rotundities  in  dog-flesh  within  a  circle  of  five  hun 
dred  miles.  Pere  Michaux  wished  to  take  Tita  with  him 
in  his  sledge,  in  order  that  Anne  might  ride  also ;  but  the 
young  girl  declined  with  a  smile,  saying  that  she  liked 
the  walk. 

' ' Do  not  wait  for  us,  sir," she  said ;  "your  dogs  can  go 
much  faster  than  ours." 

But  the  priest  preferred  to  make  the  journey  in  compa 
ny  with  them;  and  they  all  started  together  from  the 
house  door,  where  Pierre  stood  in  his  red  skull-cap,  bow 
ing  farewell.  The  sledges  glided  down  the  little  slope  to 
tin*  beach,  and  shot  out  on  the  white  ice,  the  two  drivers 


78 


ANNE. 


keeping  by  the  side  of  their  teams,  the  boys  racing  along 
in  advance,  and  Anne  walking  with  her  quick  elastic  step 
by  the  side  of  Pere  Michaux's  conveyance,  talking  to  him 
with  the  animation  which  always  came  to  her  in  the 
open  air.  The  color  mounted  in  her  cheeks ;  with  her 
head  held  erect  she  seemed  to  breathe  with  delight,  and  to 
rejoice  in  the  clear  sky,  the  cold,  the  crisp  sound  of  her 
own  footsteps,  while  her  eyes  followed  the  cliffs  of  the 
shore-line  crowned  with  evergreens — savage  cliffs  which 
the  short  summer  could  hardly  soften.  The  sun  sank  to 
ward  the  west,  the  air  grew  colder;  Tita  drew  the  furs 
over  her  head,  and  vanished  from  sight,  riding  along  in 
her  nest  half  asleep,  listening  to  the  bells.  The  boys 
still  ran  and  pranced,  but  more,  perhaps,  from  a  sense  of 
honor  than  from  natural  hilarity.  They  were  more  ex 
act  in  taking  their  turns  in  the  sledge  now,  and  more 
slow  in  coming  out  from  the  furs  upon  call ;  still,  they 
kept  on.  As  the  track  turned  little  by  little,  following 
the  line  of  the  shore,  they  came  nearer  to  the  mail-train 
advancing  rapidly  from  the  east  in  a  straight  line. 

' '  Denis  is  determined  to  have  a  good  supper  and  sleep 
to-night,"  said  Pere  Michaux  ;  "no  camp  to  make  in  the 
snow  this  evening."  Some  minutes  later  the  mail-train 
passed,  the  gaunt  old  dogs  which  drew  the  sledge  never 
even  turning  their  heads  to  gaze  at  the  party,  but  keep 
ing  straight  on,  having  come  in  a  direct  line,  without  a 
break,  from  the  point,  ten  miles  distant.  The  young  dogs 
in  Antoine's  team  pricked  up  their  ears,  and  betrayed  a 
disposition  to  rush  after  the  mail-train ;  then  Rene  and 
Lebeau,  after  looking  round  once  or  twice,  after  turn 
ing  in  their  great  paws  more  than  usual  as  they  walked, 
and  holding  back  resolutely,  at  length  sat  deliberately 
down  on  their  haunches,  and  stopped  the  sledge. 

1 '  And  thou  art  entirely  right,  Rene,  and  thou  too, 
Lebeau, "  said  old  Antoine.  ' '  To  waste  breath  following 
a  mail-train  at  a  gallop  is  worthy  only  of  young-dog 
silliness." 

So  saying  he  administered  to  the  recreant  members  of 
the  team  enough  chastisement  to  make  them  forget  the 
very  existence  of  mail-trains,  while  Rene  and  Lebeau 


ANNE. 


79 


waited  composedly  to  see  justice  done;  they  then  rose  in 
a  dignified  manner  and  started  on,  the  younger  dogs  fol 
lowing  now  with  abject  humility.  As  they  came  nearer 
the  village  the  western  pass  opened  out  before  them,  a 
long  narrow  vista  of  ice,  with  the  dark  shore-line  011  each 
side,  and  the  glow  of  the  red  sunset  shining  strangely 
through,  as  though  it  came  from  a  tropical  country  be 
yond.  A  sledge  was  crossing  down  in  the  west — a  mov 
ing  speck ;  the  scene  was  as  wild  and  arctic  as  if  they  had 
been  travelling  on  Baffin's  Bay.  The  busy  priest  gave  lit 
tle  attention  to  the  scene,  and  the  others  in  all  the  win 
ters  of  their  lives  had  seen  nothing  else :  to  the  Bedouins 
the  great  desert  is  nothing.  Anne  noted  every  feature 
and  hue  of  the  picture,  but  unconsciously.  She  saw  it 
all,  but  without  a  comment.  Still,  she  saw  it.  She  was 
to  see  it  again  many  times  in  after-years — see  it  in  cities, 
in  lighted  drawing-rooms,  in  gladness  and  in  sorrow,  and 
more  than  once  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  the  moon  was  shining 
brightly,  and  she  was  on  her  way  home  from  the  church- 
house  with  East,  she  saw  a  sledge  moving  toward  the 
northern  point.  "There  is  Pere  Michaux,  on  his  way 
home,"  she  said.  Then,  after  a  moment,  ' '  Do  you  know, 
East,  he  thinks  me  dull." 

"  He  would  not  if  he  had  seen  you  this  evening,"  re 
plied  her  companion. 

A  deep  flush,  visible  even  in  the  moonlight,  came  into 
the  girl's  face.  "Do  not  ask  me  to  recite  again,"  she 
pleaded ;  "  I  can  not.  You  must  let  me  do  what  I  feel  is 
right." 

"What  is  there  wrong  in  reciting  Shakspeare  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  something  comes  over  me  at 
times,  and  I  am  almost  swept  away.  I  can  not  bear  to 
think  of  the  feeling." 

"Then  don't,"  said  East. 

"You  do  not  understand  me." 

"I  don't  believe  you  understand  yourself;  girls  sel- 
lorn  do." 

"Why?" 

"Let  me  beg  you  not  to  fall  into  the  power  of  that 


80  ANNE. 

uncomfortable  word,  Annet.  Walters  says  women  of  the 
world  never  use  it.  They  never  ask  a  single  question." 

"But  how  can  they  learn,  then ?" 

"By  observation,"  replied  young-  Pronando,  oracu 
larly.  

CHAPTER  V. 

"  It  was  Peboan,  the  winter  ! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing 

As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 

And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 

As  the  shouting  sun  ascended ; 

And  the  young  man  saw  before  him, 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam, 

Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smouldered, 

Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  spring-time, 

Saw  the  miskodeed  in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  that  Northland 

Came  the  spring  with  all  its  splendor, 

All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms, 

All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses." 

— LONGFELLOW.     The  Sony  of  Hiawatha. 

ON  this  Northern  border  Spring  came  late — came  late, 
but  in  splendor.  She  sent  forward  no  couriers,  no  hints 
in  the  forest,  no  premonitions  on -the  winds.  All  at  once 
she  was  there  herself.  Not  a  shy  maid,  timid,  pallid,  hes 
itating,  and  turning  back,  but  a  full-blooming  goddess 
and  woman.  One  might  almost  say  that  she  was  not 
Spring  at  all,  but  Summer.  The  weeks  called  spring 
farther  southward  showed  here  but  the  shrinking  and 
fading  of  winter.  First  the  snow  crumbled  to  fine  dry 
grayish  powder;  then  the  ice  grew  porous  and  became 
honeycombed,  and  it  was  no  longer  safe  to  cross  the 
Straits ;  then  the  first  birds  came ;  then  the  far-off  smoke 
of  a  steamer  could  be  seen  above  the  point,  and  the  village 
wakened.  In  the  same  day  the  winter  went  and  the  sum 
mer  came. 

On  the  highest  point  of  the  island  were  the  remains  of 
an  old  earth-work,  crowned  by  a  little  surveyor's  station, 
like  an  arbor  on  stilts,  which  was  reached  by  the  aid  of  a 
ladder.  Anne  liked  to  go  up  there  on  the  first  spring 


ANNE.  81 

day,  climb  the  ice-coated  rounds,  and,  standing  on  the 
dry  old  snow  that  covered  the  floor,  gaze  off  toward  the 
south  and  east,  where  people  and  cities  were,  and  the 
spring ;  then  toward  the  north,  where  there  was  still  only 
fast-bound  ice  and  snow  stretching  away  over  thousands 
of  miles  of  almost  unknown  country,  the  great  wild 
northland  called  British  America,  traversed  by  the  hunt 
ers  and  trappers  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company — vast 
empire  ruled  by  private  hands,  a  government  within  a 
government,  its  line  of  forts  and  posts  extending  from 
James  Bay  to  the  Little  Slave,  from  the  Saskatchewan 
northward  to  the  Polar  Sea.  In  the  early  afternoon  she 
stood  there  now,  having  made  her  way  up  to  the  height 
with  some  difficulty,  for  the  ice-crust  was  broken,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  wade  knee-deep  through  some  of  the 
drifts,  and  go  round  others  that  were  over  her  head, 
leaving  a  trail  behind  her  as  crooked  as  a  child's  through 
a  clover  field.  Reaching  the  plateau  on  the  summit  at 
last,  and  avoiding  the  hidden  pits  of  the  old  earth-work, 
she  climbed  the  icy  ladder,  and  stood  on  the  white  floor 
again  with  delight,  brushing  from  her  woollen  skirt  and 
leggings  the  dry  snow  which  still  clung  to  them.  The 
sun  was  so  bright  and  the  air  so  exhilarating  that  she 
pushed  back  her  little  fur  cap,  and  drew  a  long  breath 
of  enjoyment.  Everything  below  was  still  white-cover 
ed — the  island  and  village,  the  Straits  and  the  mainland ; 
but  coming  round  the  eastern  point  four  propellers  could 
be  seen  floundering  in  the  loosened  ice,  heaving  the  por 
ous  cakes  aside,  butting  with  their  sharp  high  bows,  and 
then  backing  briskly  to  get  headway  to  start  forward 
again,  thus  breaking  slowly  a  passageway  for  themselves, 
and  churning  the  black  water  behind  until  it  boiled  white 
as  soap-suds  as  the  floating  ice  closed  over  it.  Now  one 
boat,  finding  by  chance  a  weakened  spot,  floundered 
through  it  without  pause,  and  came  out  triumphantly 
some  distance  in  advance  of  the  rest;  then  another, 
wakened  to  new  exertions  by  this  sight,  put  on  all  steam, 
and  went  pounding  along  with  a  crashing  sound  until  her 
bows  were  on  a  line  with  the  first.  The  two  boats  left 
behind  now  started  together  with  much  splashing  and 

6 


82  ANNE. 

sputtering1,  and  veering  toward  the  shore,  with  the  hope 
of  finding  a  new  weak  place  in  the  floe,  ran  against  hard 
ice  with  a  thud,  and  stopped  short ;  then  there  was  much 
backing  out  and  floundering  round,  the  engines  panting 
and  the  little  bells  ringing  wildly,  until  the  old  channel 
was  reached,  where  they  rested  awhile,  and  then  made 
another  beginning.  These  manoauvres  were  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  the  passengers  and  crew  of  each 
boat  laughing  and  chaffing  each  other  as  they  passed  and 
repassed  in  the  slow  pounding  race.  It  had  happened 
more  than  once  that  these  first  steamers  had  been  frozen 
in  after  reaching  the  Straits,  and  had  been  obliged  to 
spend  several  days  in  company  fast  bound  in  the  ice. 
Then  the  passengers  ar>d  crews  visited  each  other,  climb 
ing  down  the  sides  ot  the  steamers  and  walking  across. 
At  that  early  season  the  passengers  were  seldom  pleasure- 
travellers,  and  therefore  they  endured  the  delay  philo 
sophically.  It  is  only  the  real  pleasure-traveller  who 
has  not  one  hour  to  spare. 

The  steamers  Aime  now  watched  were  the  first  from 
below.  The  lower  lakes  were  clear;  it  was  only  this 
northern  Strait  that  still  held  the  ice  together,  and  kept 
the  fleets  at  bay  on  the  east  and  on  the  west.  White- 
winged  vessels,  pioneers  of  the  summer  squadron,  waited 
without  while  the  propellers  turned  their  knife-bladed 
bows  into  the  ice,  and  cut  a  pathway  through.  Then 
word  went  down  that  the  Straits  were  open,  all  the  fresh 
water  fleet  set  sail,  the  lights  wrere  lit  again  in  the  light 
houses,  and  the  fishing  stations  and  lonely  little  wood 
docks  came  to  life. 

"How  delightful  it  is!"  said  Anne,  aloud. 

There  are  times  when  a  person,  although  alone,  does 
utter  a  sentence  or  two,  that  is,  thinks  aloud ;  but  such 
times  are  rare.  And  such  sentences,  also,  are  short — ex 
clamations.  The  long  soliloquies  of  the  stage,  so  con 
venient  in  the-  elucidation  of  plot,  do  not  occur  in  real 
life,  where  we  are  left  to  guess  at  our  neighbor's  motives, 
untaught  by  so  much  as  a  syllable.  How  fortunate  for 
Dora's  chances  of  happiness,  could  she  but  overhear  that 
Alonzo  thinks  her  a  sweet,  bigoted  little  fool}  but  wants 


ANNE. 


83 


that  very  influence  to  keep  him  straight,  nothing  less 
than  the  intense  convictions  of  a  limited  intelligence  and 
small  experience  in  life  being  of  any  use  in  sweeping  him 
over  with  a  rush  by  means  of  his  feelings  alone,  which  is 
what  he  is  hoping  for.  Having  worn  out  all  the  pleasure 
there  is  to  be  had  in  this  world,  he  has  now  a  mind  to  try 
for  the  next. 

What  an  escape  for  young  Conrad  to  learn  from 
Honoria's  own  passionate  soliloquy  that  she  is  marry 
ing  him  from  bitterest  rage  against  Manuel,  and  that 
those  tones  and  looks  that  have  made  him  happy  are 
second-hand  wares,  which  she  flings  from  her  voice  and 
eyes  with  desperate  scorn !  Still,  we  must  believe  that 
Nature  knows  what  she  is  about ;  and  she  has  not  as  yet 
taught  us  to  think  aloud. 

But  sometimes,  when  the  air  is  peculiarly  exhilarating, 
when  a  distant  mountain  grows  purple  and  gold  tipped  as 
the  sun  goes  down  behind  it,  sometimes  when  we  see  the 
wide  ocean  suddenly,  or  come  upon  a  bed  of  violets,  we 
utter  an  exclamation  as  the  bird  sings :  we  hardly  know 
we  have  spoken. 

"Yes,  it  is  delightful,"  said  some  one  below,  replying 
to  the  girl's  sentence. 

It  was  Rast,  who  had  come  across  the  plateau  unseen, 
and  was  now  standing  011  the  old  bastion  of  the  fort 
beneath  her.  Anne  smiled,  then  turned  as  if  to  de 
scend. 

"Wait;  I  am  coming  up,"  said  Rast. 

"But  it  is  time  to  go  home." 

"Apparently  it  was  not  time  until  I  came,"  said  the 
youth,  swinging  himself  up  without  the  aid  of  the  ladder, 
and  standing  by  her  side.  ' '  What  are  you  looking  at  ? 
Those  steamers  ?" 

"Yes,  and  the  spring,  and  the  air." 

"You  can  not  see  the  air." 

"But  I  can  feel  it;  it  is  delicious.  1  wonder,  if  we 
should  go  far  away,  Rast,  and  see  tropical  skies,  slow 
rivers,  great  white  lilies,  and  palms,  whether  they  would 
seem  more  beautiful  than  this  ?" 

"  Of  course  they  would;  and  we  are  going  some  day. 


84  ANNE. 

We  are  not  intending  to  stay  here  on  this  island  all  our 
lives,  I  hope." 

' '  But  it  is  our  home,  and  I  love  it.  I  love  this  water 
and  these  woods,  I  love  the  flash  of  the  light-houses,  and 
the  rushing  sound  the  vessels  make  sweeping  by  at  night 
under  full  sail,  close  in  shore." 

"The  island  is  well  enough  in  its  way,  but  there  are 
other  places;  and  I,  for  one,  mean  to  see  the  world,"  said 
young  Pronando,  taking  off  his  cap,  throwing  it  up,  and 
catching  it  like  a  ball. 

"Yes,  you  will  see  the  world,"  answered  Anne ;  "but 
I  shall  stay  here.  You  must  write  and  tell  me  all  about 
it." 

"Of  course,"  said  Rast,  sending  the  cap  up  twice  as 
high,  and  catching  it  with  unerring  hand.  Then  he 
stopped  his  play,  and  said,  suddenly,  "Will  you  care 
very  much  when  I  am  gone  away  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne;  "I  shall  be  very  lonely." 

"But  shall  you  care?"  said  the  youth,  insistently. 
' '  You  have  so  Uttle  feeling,  Annet ;  you  are  always  cold. " 

"I  shall  be  colder  still  if  we  stay  here  any  longer," 
said  the  girl,  turning  to  descend.  East  followed  her,  and 
they  crossed  the  plateau  together. 

"How  much  shall  you  care?"  he  repeated.  "You 
never  say  things  out,  Annet.  You  are  like  a  stone." 

"Then  throw  me  away,"  answered  the  girl,  lightly. 
But  there  was  a  moisture  in  her  eyes  and  a  slight  tremor 
in  her  voice  which  East  understood,  or,  rather,  thought 
he  understood.  He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  warm 
ly  ;  the  two  fur  gloves  made  the  action  awkward,  but  he 
would  not  loosen  his  hold.  His  spirits  rose,  and  he  be 
gan  to  laugh,  and  to  drag  his  companion  along  at  a  rapid 
pace.  They  reached  the  edge  of  the  hill,  and  the  steep 
descent  opened  before  them;  the  girl's  remonstrances 
were  in  vain,  and  it  ended  in  their  racing  down  together 
at  a  break-neck  pace,  reaching  the  bottom,  laughing  and 
breathless,  like  two  school-children.  They  were  now  on 
the  second  plateau,  the  level  proper  of  the  island  above 
the  cliffs,  which,  high  and  precipitous  on  three  sides, 
sank  down  gradually  to  the  southwestern  shore,  so  that 


"AND  IT  ENDED  IN  THEIR  RACING  DOWN  TOGETHER." 


ANNE.  85 

one  might  land  there,  and  drag  a  cannon  up  to  the  old 
earth  work  011  the  summit — a  feat  once  performed  by 
British  soldiers  in  the  days  when  the  powers  of  the  Old 
World  were  still  figiiting  with  each  other  for  the  New. 
How  quaint  they  now  seem,  those  ancient  proclamations 
and  documents  with  which  a  Spanish  king  grandly  meted 
out  this  country  from  Maine  to  Florida,  an  English  queen 
divided  the  same  with  sweeping  patents  from  East  to 
West,  and  a  French  monarch,  following  after,  regranted 
the  whole  virgin  soil  on  which  the  banners  of  France  were 
to  be  planted  with  solemn  Christian  ceremony!  They 
all  took  possession ;  they  all  planted  banners.  Some  of 
the  brass  plates  they  buried  are  turned  up  occasionally 
at  the  present  day  by  the  farmer's  plough,  and,  wiping 
his  forehead,  he  stops  to  spell  out  their  high-sounding 
words,  while  his  sunburned  boys  look  curiously  over  his 
shoulder.  A  place  in  the  county  museum  is  all  they  are 
worth  now. 

Anne  Douglas  and  Rast  went  through  the  fort  grounds 
and  down  the  hill  path,  instead  of  going  round  by  the 
road.  The  fort  ladies,  sitting  by  their  low  windows,  saw 
them,  and  commented. 

"That  girl  does  not  appreciate  young  Pronando,"  said 
Mrs.  Cromer.  "I  doubt  if  she  even  sees  his  beauty." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  that  she  does  not,"  replied 
Mrs.  Rankin,  "  for  he  must  go  away  and  live  his  life,  of 
course;  have  his  adventures." 

"  Why  not  she  also  ?"  said  Mrs.  Bryden,  smiling. 

"  In  the  first  place,  she  has  no  choice;  she  is  tied  down 
here.  In  the  second,  she  is  a  good  sort  of  girl,  with 
out  imagination  or  enthusiasm.  Her  idea  of  life  is  to 
marry,  have  meat  three  times  a  week,  fish  three  times, 
lights  out  at  ten  o'clock,  and,  by  way  of  literature,  Miss 
Edgeworth's  novels  and  Macaulay's  History  of  Eng 
land." 

"And  a  very  good  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Bryden. 

"Certainly,  only  one  can  not  call  that  adventures." 

"But  even  such  girls  come  upon  adventures  some 
times,"  said  Mrs.  Cromer. 

"Yes,  when  they  have  beauty.      Their  beauty  seems 


86 

often  to  have  an  extraordinary  power  over  the  most  poet 
ical  and  imaginative  men,  too,  strange  as  it  may  appear. 
But  Anne  Douglas  has  none  of  it." 

"  How  you  all  misunderstand  her!"  said  a  voice  from 
the  little  dining-room  opening  into  the  parlor,  its  door 
way  screened  by  a  curtain. 

"  Ah,  doctor,  are  you  there?"  said  Mrs.  Bryden.  "  We 
should  not  have  said  a  word  if  we  had  known  it." 

"Yes,  madam,  I  am  here — with  the  colonel;  but  it  is 
only  this  moment  that  I  have  lifted  my  head  to  listen  to 
your  conversation,  and  I  remain  filled  with  astonish 
ment,  as  usual,  at  the  obtuseness  manifested  by  your  sex 
regarding  each  other." 

"Hear!  hear!"  said  the  colonel. 

"  Anne  Douglas,"  continued  the  chaplain,  clearing  his 
throat,  and  beginning  in  a  high  chanting  voice,  which 
they  all  knew  well,  having  heard  it  declaiming  on  vari 
ous  subjects  during  long  snow-bound  winter  evenings, 
"is  a  most  unusual  girl." 

"Oh,  come  in  here,  doctor,  and  take  a  seat;  it  will  be 
hard  work  to  say  it  all  through  that  doorway,"  called 
Mrs.  Bryden. 

"No,  madam,  I  will  not  sit  down, "said  the  chaplain, 
appearing  under  the  curtain,  his  brown  wig  awry,  his 
finger  impressively  pointed.  "I  will  simply  say  this, 
namely,  that  as  to  Anne  Douglas,  you  are  all  mistaken." 

"And  who  is  to  be  the  judge  between  us  ?" 

"The  future,  madam." 

"  Very  well;  we  will  leave  it  to  the  future,  then,"  said 
Mrs.  Bryden,  skillfully  evading  the  expected  oration. 

"We  may  safely  do  that,  madam — safely  indeed;  the 
only  difficulty  is  that  we  may  not  live  to  see  it." 

"  Oh,  a  woman's  future  is  always  near  at  hand,  doctor. 
Besides,  we  are  not  so  very  old  ourselves." 

' '  True,  madam — happily  true  for  all  the  eyes  that  rest 
upon  you.  Nevertheless,  the  other  side,  I  opine,  is  like 
wise  true,  namely,  that  Anne  Douglas  is  very  young." 

"She  is  sixteen;  and  I  myself  am  only  twenty,"  said 
Mrs.  Rankin. 

"With  due  respect,  ladies.  I   must  mention  that  no* 


ANNE.  87 

one  of  you  was  ever  in  her  life  so  young  as  Anne  Doug 
las  at  the  present  moment." 

"'What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  doctor  ?" 

4 '  "What  I  say.  I  can  see  you  all  as  children  in  my 
mind's  eye,"  continued  the  chaplain,  unflinchingly  ; 
* '  pretty,  bright,  precocious  little  creatures,  finely  finish 
ed,  finely  dressed,  quick-witted,  graceful,  and  be  witching. 
But  at  that  age  Anne  Douglas  was  a — 

"Well,  what?" 

"A  mollusk,"  said  the  chaplain,  bringing  out  the  word 
emphatically. 

' '  And  what  is  she  now,  doctor  ?" 

"A  promise." 

"  To  be  magnificently  fulfilled  in  the  future  ?" 

' '  That  depends  upon  fate,  madam ;  or  rather  circum 
stances." 

"For  my  part,  I  would  rather  be  fulfilled,  although 
not  perhaps  magnificently,  than  remain  even  the  most 
glorious  promise,"  said  Mrs.  Rankin,  laughing. 

The  fort  ladies  liked  the  old  chaplain,  and  endured  his 
long  monologues  by  adding  to  them  running  accompa 
niments  of  their  own.  To  bright  society  women  there  is 
nothing  so  unendurable  as  long  arguments  or  disserta 
tions  on  one  subject.  Whether  from  want  of  mental 
training,  or  from  impatience  of  delay,  they  are  unwilling 
to  follow  any  one  line  of  thought  for  more  than  a  minute 
or  two;  they  love  to  skim  at  random,  to  light  and  fly 
away  again,  to  hover,  to  poise,  and  then  dart  upward 
into  space  like  so  many  humming-birds.  Listen  to  a  cir 
cle  of  them  sitting  chatting  over  their  embroidery  round 
the  fire  or  011  a  piazza;  no  man  with  a  thoroughly  mas 
culine  mind  can  follow  them  in  their  mental  dartiiigs 
hither  and  thither.  He  has  just  brought  his  thoughts 
to  bear  upon  a  subject,  and  is  collecting  what  he  is  go 
ing  to  say,  when,  behold !  they  are  miles  away,  and  ho 
would  be  considered  stupid  to  attempt  to  bring  them  back. 
His  mental  processes  are  slow  and  lumbering  compared 
with  theirs.  And  when,  once  in  a  while,  a  woman  ap 
pears  who  likes  to  search  out  a  subject,  she  finds  herself 
out  of  place  and  bewildered  too,  often  a  target  for  the 


88  ANNE. 

quick  tongues  and  light  ridicule  of  her  companions.  If 
she  likes  to  generalize,  she  is  lost.  Her  companions  nev 
er  wish  to  generalize ;  they  want  to  know  not  the  gener 
al  view  of  a  subject,  but  what  Mrs.  Blank  or  Mr.  Star 
thinks  of  it.  Parents,  if  you  have  a  daughter  of  this 
kind,  see  that  she  spends  in  her  youth  a  good  portion  of 
wery  day  with  the  most  volatile  swift-tongued  maidens 
/ou  can  find ;  otherwise  you  leave  her  without  the  cur 
rent  coin  of  the  realm  in  which  she  must  live  and  diey 
and  110  matter  if  she  be  fairly  a  gold  mine  herself,  her 
wealth  is  unavailable. 

Spring  burst  upon  the  island  with  sudden  glory ;  the 
maples  showed  all  at  once  a  thousand  perfect  little  leaf 
lets,  the  rings  of  the  juniper  brightened,  the  wild  larches 
beckoned  with  their  long  green  fingers  from  the  height. 
The  ice  was  gone,  the  snow  was  gone,  no  one  knew 
whither ;  the  Straits  were  dotted  with  white  sails.  Blue 
bells  appeared,  swinging  on  their  hair-like  stems  where 
late  the  icicles  hung,  and  every  little  Indian  farm  set  to 
work  with  vigor,  knowing  that  the  time  was  short.  The 
soldiers  from  the  fort  dug  in  the  military  garden  under 
the  cliff,  turning  up  the  mould  in  long  ridges,  and  paus 
ing  to  hang  up  their  coats  on  the  old  stockade  with  a 
finely  important  air  of  heat :  it  was  so  long  since  they  had 
been  too  warm !  The  little  village  was  broad  awake  now ; 
there  was  shipping  at  the  piers  again,  and  a  demand  for 
white-fish ;  all  the  fishing-boats  were  out,  and  their  half- 
breed  crews  hard  at  work.  The  violins  hung  unused  on 
the  walls  of  the  little  cabins  that  faced  the  west,  for  the 
winter  was  ended,  and  the  husbands  and  lovers  were  off 
on  the  water :  the  summer  was  their  time  for  toil. 

And  now  came  the  parting.  East  was  to  leave  the  isl 
and,  and  enter  the  Western  college  which  Dr.  Gaston  had 
selected  for  him.  The  chaplain  would  have  sent  the  boy 
over  to  England  at  once  to  his  own  alma  mater  had  it 
been  possible ;  but  it  was  not  possible,  and  the  good  man 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  degree  of  excellence  possessed 
by  American  colleges,  East  or  West.  Harvard  and  Yalo 
*3>  and  old  Columbia  would  not  have  believed  this ;  yet  it 
was  true. 


ANNE.  89 

Rast  was  in  high  spirits;  the  brilliant  world  seemed 
opening  before  him.  Everything  in  his  life  was  as  he 
wished  it  to  be ;  and  he  was  not  disturbed  by  any  realiza 
tion  that  this  was  a  rare  condition  of  affairs  which  might 
never  occur  again.  He  was  young,  buoyant,  and  beauti 
ful;  everybody  liked  him,  and  he  liked  everybody.  He 
was  going  to  set  sail  into  his  far  bright  future,  and  he 
would  find,  probably,  an  island  of  silver  and  diamonds, 
with  peacocks  walking  slowly  about  spreading  their  gor 
geous  feathers,  and  pleasure-boats  at  hand  with  silken  sails 
and  golden  oars.  It  was  not  identically  this  that  he 
dreamed,  but  things  equally  shining  and  unattainable — 
that  is,  to  such  a  nature  as  his.  The  silver  and  diamond 
islands  are  there,  but  by  a  law  of  equalization  only  hard- 
featured  prosaic  men  attain  them  and  take  possession, 
forming  thereafterward  a  lasting  contrast  to  their  own 
surroundings,  which  then  goes  into  the  other  scale,  and 
amuses  forever  the  poverty-stricken  poets  who,  in  their 
poor  old  boats,  with  ragged  canvas  and  some  small  ballast 
of  guitars  and  lutes,  sail  by,  eating  their  crusts  and  laugh* 
ing  at  them. 

' '  I  shall  not  go  one  step,  even  now,  unless  you  promise 
to  write  regularly,  Annet,"  said  Rast,  the  evening  before 
his  departure,  as  they  stood  together  on  the  old  piazza  of 
the  Agency  watching  for  the  lights  of  the  steamer  which 
was  to  carry  him  away. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  write,  Rast;  once  a  week  always." 

"No;  I  wish  no  set  times  fixed.  You  are  simply  to 
promise  that  you  will  immediately  answer  every  letter  I 
write." 

"I  will  answer;  but  as  to  the  time — I  may  not  always 
be  able — " 

"You  may  if  you  choose;  and  I  will  not  go  unless 
you  promise,"  said  Rast,  with  irritation.  "Do  you  want 
to  spoil  everything,  my  education  and  all  my  future  ?  I 
would  not  be  so  selfish,  Annet,  if  I  were  you.  What  is  it 
I  ask  ?  A  trifle.  I  have  no  father,  no  mother,  no  sister  ; 
only  you.  I  am  going  away  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
and  you  grudge  me  a  letter!" 

"Not  a  letter,  Rast,  but  a  promise;  lest  I  might  not  be 


90  ANNE. 

able  to  fulfill  it.  I  only  meant  that  something  might 
happen  in  the  house  which  would  keep  me  from  answer 
ing  within  the  hour,  and  then  my  promise  would  be  brok 
en.  I  will  always  answer  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"You  will  not  fail  me,  then  ?" 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand  and  clasped  his  with  a 
warm,  honest  pressure ;  he  turned  and  looked  at  her  in 
the  starlight.  "God  bless  you  for  your  dear  sincere 
eyes!"  he  said.  "The  devil  himself  would  believe 
you." 

"I  hope  he  would," said  Anne,  smiling. 

What  with  Miss  Lois's  Calvinism,  and  the  terrific  pic 
ture  of  his  Satanic  Majesty  at  the  death-bed  of  the  wick 
ed  in  the  old  Catholic  church,  the  two,  as  children,  had 
often  talked  about  the  devil  and  his  characteristics,  Rast 
being  sure  that  some  day  he  should  see  him.  Miss  Lois, 
overhearing  this,  agreed  with  the  lad  dryly,  much  to 
Anne's  dismay. 

"What  is  the  use  of  the  devil?"  she  had  once  de 
manded. 

"To  punish  the  wicked," answered  Miss  Lois. 

"Does  he  enjoy  it?" 

"I  suppose  he  does." 

* '  Then  he  must  be  very  wicked  himself  ?" 

"He  is." 

"Who  created  him  ?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Anne.  God  created  him, 
of  course." 

"Well,"  said  the  child,  after  a  silence,  going  as  usual 
to  the  root  of  the  matter,  "  I  don't  think  /should  have 
made  him  at  all  if  I  couldn't  have  made  him  better." 

The  next  morning  the  sun  rose  as  usual,  but  Rast  was 
gone.  Anne  felt  a  loneliness  she  had  never  felt  before 
in  all  her  life.  For  Rast  had  been  her  companion ;  hard 
ly  a  day  had  passed  without  his  step  on  the  piazza,  his 
voice  in  the  hall,  a  walk  with  him  or  a  sail ;  and  always, 
whether  at  home  or  abroad,  the  constant  accompaniment 
of  his  suggestions,  his  fault-findings,  his  teachings,  his 
teasiiigs,  his  grumblings,  his  laughter  and  merry  non 
sense,  the  whole  made  bearable — nay,  even  pleasant — by 


ANNE.  91 

the  affection  that  lay  underneath.     Anne  Douglas's  na-  / 
ture  was  faithful  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  faithful  to  I 
its  promises,  its  duties,  its  love;  but  it  was  an  intuitive! 
faithfulness,  which   never  thought  about  itself  at  all. 
Those  persons  who  are  in  the  habit  of  explaining  volumi 
nously  to  themselves  and  everybody  else  the  lines  of  ar 
gument,  the  struggles,  and  triumphant  conclusions  reach- 
ad  by  their  various  virtues,  would  have  considered  this 
girl's  mind  but  a  poor  dull  thing,  for  Anne  never  ana 
lyzed  herself  at  all .     She  had  never  lived  for  herself  or  in 
herself,  and  it  was  that  which  gave  the  tinge  of  coldness 
that  was  noticed  in  her.     For  warm-heartedness  general 
ly  begins  at  home,  and  those  who  are  warm  to  others  are 
warmer  to  themselves ;  it  is  but  the  overflow. 

Meantime  young  Pronando,  sailing  southward,  felt 
his  spirits  rise  with  every  shining  mile.  Loneliness  is 
crowded  out  of  the  mind  of  the  one  who  goes  by  the  myri 
ad  images  of  travel ;  it  is  the  one  who  stays  who  suffers. 
But  there  was  much  to  be  done  at  the  Agency.  The  boys 
grew  out  of  their  clothes,  the  old  furniture  fell  to  pieces, 
and  the  father  seemed  more  lost  to  the  present  with  ev 
ery  day  and  hour.  He  gave  less  and  less  attention  to  the 
wants  of  the  household,  and  at  last  Aime  and  Miss  Lois  to 
gether  managed  everything  without  troubling  him  even 
by  a  question.  For  strange  patience  have  loving  women 
ever  had  with  dreamers  like  William  Douglas— men  who, 
viewed  by  the  eyes  of  the  world,  are  useless  and  incom 
petent;  tears  are  shed  over  their  graves  oftentimes  long 
after  the  successful  are  forgotten.  For  personally  there 
is  a  sweetness  and  gentleness  in  their  natures  which  make 
them  very  dear  to  the  women  who  love  them.  The  suc 
cessful  man,  perhaps,  would  not  care  for  such  love,  which 
is  half  devotion,  half  protection;  the  successful  man 
wishes  to  domineer.  But  as  he  grows  old  he  notices  that 
Jane  is  always  quiet  when  the  peach-trees  are  in  bloom, 
and  that  gray-haired  sister  Catherine  always  bends  down 
her  head  and  weeps  silently  whenever  the  choir  sings 
"  Rockingham"  ;  and  then  he  remembers  who  it  was  that 
died  when  the  peach-trees  showed  their  blossoms,  and  who 
it  was  who  went  about  humming  "  Rockingham,"  and 


92  ANNE. 

understands.  Yet  always  with,  a  slow  surprise,  and  a 
wonder  at  women's  ways,  since  both  the  men  were,  to  his 
idea,  failures  in  the  world  and  their  generation. 

Any  other  woman  of  Miss  Lois's  age  and  strict  prudence, 
having  general  charge  of  the  Douglas  household,  would 
have  required  from  Anne  long  ago  that  she  should  ask  her 
father  plainly  what  were  his  resources  and  his  income. 
To  a  cent  were  all  the  affairs  of  the  church-house  regu 
lated  and  balanced ;  Miss  Lois  would  have  been  unhappy 
at  the  end  of  the  week  if  a  penny  remained  unaccounted 
for.  Yet  she  said  nothing  to  the  daughter,  nothing  to 
the  father,  although  noticing  all  the  time  that  the  small 
provision  was  no  larger,  while  the  boys  grew  like  reeds, 
and  the  time  was  at  hand  when  more  must  be  done  for 
them.  William  Douglas's  way  was  to  give  Anne  at  the 
beginning  of  each  week  a  certain  sum.  This  he  had  done 
as  far  back  as  his  daughter  could  remember,  and  she  had 
spent  it  under  the  direction  of  Miss  Lois.  Now,  being 
older,  she  laid  it  out  without  much  advice  from  her  men 
tor,  but  began  to  feel  troubled  because  it  did  not  go  as  far. 
"It  goes  as  far,"  said  Miss  Lois,  "but  the  boys  have  gone 
farther." 

'  Poor  little  fellows!  they  must  eat." 

'  And  they  must  work." 

'  But  what  can  they  do  at  their  age,  Miss  Lois  ?" 

'Form  habits,"  replied  the  New  England  woman, 
sternly.  ' '  In  my  opinion  the  crying  evil  of  the  country 
to-day  is  that  the  boys  are  not  trained ;  educated,  I  grant 
you,  but  not  trained — trained  as  they  were  when  times 
were  simpler,  and  the  rod  in  use.  Parents  are  too  ambi 
tious  ;  the  mechanic  wishes  to  make  his  sons  merchants, 
the  merchant  wishes  to  make  his  gentlemen ;  but,  while 
educating  them  and  pushing  them  forward,  the  parents 
forget  the  homely  habits  of  patient  labor,  strict  veracity 
in  thought  and  action,  and  stern  self-denials  which  have 
given  them  their  measure  of  success,  and  so  between  the 
two  stools  the  poor  boys  fall  to  the  ground.  It  is  my  opin 
ion,"  added  Miss  Lois,  decisively,  "that,  whether  you 
want  to  build  the  Capitol  at  Washington  or  a  red  barn, 
you  must  first  have  a  firm  foundation," 


ANNE.  93 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Anne.  "And  I  do  try  to  con 
trol  them." 

"Oh,  General  Putnam!  you  try!"  said  Miss  Lois. 
"  Why,  you  spoil  them  like  babies." 

Anne  always  gave  up  the  point  when  Miss  Lois  reverted 
to  Putnam.  This  Revolutionary  hero,  now  principally 
known,  like  Romulus,  by  a  wolf  story,  was  the  old  maid's 
glory  and  remote  ancestor,  and  helped  her  over  occasion 
al  necessities  for  strong  expressions  with  ancestral  kind 
ness.  She  felt  like  reverting  to  him  more  than  once  that 
summer,  because,  Rast  having  gone,  there  was  less  of  a 
whirlwind  of  out-door  life,  of  pleasure  in  the  woods  and 
on  the  water,  and  the  plain  bare  state  of  things  stood  clear 
ly  revealed.  Anne  fell  behind  every  month  with  the 
household  expenses  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  and  every 
month  Miss  Lois  herself  made  up  the  deficiency.  The 
boys  were  larger,  and  careless.  The  old  house  yawned 
itself  apart.  Of  necessity  the  gap  between  the  income 
and  the  expenditure  must  grow  wider  and  wider.  Anne 
did  not  realize  this,  but  Miss  Lois  did.  The  young  girl 
thought  each  month  that  she  must  have  been  unusual 
ly  extravagant ;  she  counted  in  some  item  as  an  extra  ex 
pense  which  would  not  occur  again,  gave  up  something 
for  herself,  and  began  anew  with  fresh  hope.  On  almost 
all  subjects  Miss  Lois  had  the  smallest  amount  of  patience 
for  what  she  called  blindness,  but  on  this  she  was  silent. 
Now  and  then  her  eyes  would  follow  Anne's  father  with  a 
troubled  gaze ;  but  if  he  looked  toward  her  or  spoke,  she 
at  once  assumed  her  usual  brisk  manner,  and  was  even 
more  cheerful  than  usual.  Thus,  the  mentor  being  si 
lent,  the  family  drifted  on. 

The  short  Northern  summer,  with  its  intense  sunshine 
and  its  cool  nights,  was  now  upon  them.  Fire  crackled 
upon  the  hearth  of  the  Agency  sitting-room  in  the  early 
morning,  but  it  died  out  about  ten  o'clock,  and  from  that 
time  until  five  in  the  afternoon  the  heat  and  the  bright 
ness  were  peculiarly  brilliant  and  intense.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  white  cliffs  must  take  fire  and  smoulder  in 
places  where  they  were  without  trees  to  cover  them ;  to 
climb  up  and  sit  there  was  to  feel  the  earth  burning  un- 


94  ANNE. 

der  you,  and  to  be  penetrated  with  a  sun-bath  of  rays 
beating  straight  down  through  the  clear  air  like  white 
shafts.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  resembling  the  low 
land  heats  in  this  atmosphere,  for  all  the  time  a  breeze 
blew,  ruining  the  Straits,  and  bearing  the  vessels  swift 
ly  on  to  the  east  and  the  west  on  long  tacks,  making  the 
leaves  in  the  woods  flutter  on  their  branchlets,  and  keep 
ing  the  wild-brier  bushes,  growing  on  angles  and  points 
of  the  cliff,  stretched  out  like  long  whip-cords  wreathed 
in  pink  and  green.  There  was  nothing,  too,  of  the  still 
ness  of  the  lowlands,  for  always  one  could  hear  the  rust 
ling  and  laughing  of  the  forest,  and  the  wash  of  the  wa 
ter  on  the  pebbly  beach.  There  were  seldom  any  clouds 
in  the  summer  sky,  and  those  that  were  there  were  nev 
er  of  that  soft,  high-piled  white  downiness  that  belongs 
to  summer  clouds  farther  south.  They  came  up  in  the 
west  at  evening  in  time  for  the  sunset,  or  they  lay  along 
the  east  in  the  early  morning,  but  they  did  not  drift  over 
the  zenith  in  white  laziness  at  noontide,  or  come  together 
violently  in  sudden  thunder-storms.  They  were  sober 
clouds  of  quiet  hue,  and  they  seemed  to  know  that  they 
were  not  to  have  a  prominent  place  in  the  summer  pro 
cession  of  night,  noon,  and  morning  in  that  Northern 
sky,  as  though  there  was  a  law  that  the  sun  should  have 
uninterrupted  sway  during  the  short  season  allotted  to 
him.  Anne  walked  in  the  woods  as  usual,  but  not  far. 
East  was  gone.  East  always  hurried  everybody;  left 
alone,  she  wandered  slowly  through  the  aisles  of  the  arbor 
vitse  on  the  southern  heights.  The  close  ranks  of  these 
trees  hardly  made  what  is  called  a  grove,  for  the  flat  green 
plats  of  foliage  rose  straight  into  the  air,  and  did  not  arch 
or  mingle  with  each  other ;  a  person  walking  there  could 
always  see  the  open  sky  above.  But  so  dense  was  the 
thickness  on  each  side  that  though  the  little  paths  with 
which  the  wood  was  intersected  often  ran  close  to  each 
other,  sometimes  side  by  side,  persons  following  them  had 
no  suspicion  of  each  other's  presence  unless  their  voices 
betrayed  them .  In  the  hot  sun  the  trees  exhaled  a  stron  g 
aromatic  fragrance,  and  as  the  currents  of  air  did  not 
penetrate  their  low  green-walled  aisles,  it  rested  there,  al- 


ANNE.  95 

though  up  above  everything  was  dancing  along — butter 
flies,  petals  of  the  brier,  waifs  and  strays  from  the  forest, 
borne  lakeward  on  the  strong  breeze.  The  atmosphere  in 
these  paths  was  so  hot,  still,  and  aromatic  that  now  and 
then  Anne  loved  to  go  there  and  steep  herself  in  it.  She 
used  to  tell  Miss  Lois  that  it  made  her  feel  as  though 
she  was  an  Egyptian  princess  who  had  been  swathed  in 
precious  gums  and  spices  for  a  thousand  years. 

Over  on  the  other  side  of  the  island  grew  the  great 
pines.  These  had  two  deeply  worn  Indian  trails  leading 
through  them  from  north  to  south,  not  aimless,  wandering 
little  paths  like  those  through  the  arbor  vitse,  but  one 
straight  track  from  the  village  to  the  western  shore,  and 
another  leading  down  to  the  spring  on  the  beach.  The 
cliffs  on  whose  summit  these  pines  grew  were  high  and 
precipitous,  overlooking  deep  water ;  a  vessel  could  have 
sailed  by  so  near  the  shore  that  a  pebble  thrown  from  above 
would  have  dropped  upon  her  deck.  With  one  arm 
round  an  old  trunk,  Anne  often  sat  on  the  edge  of  these 
cliffs,  looking  down  through  the  western  pass.  She  had 
never  felt  any  desire  to  leave  the  island,  save  that  some 
times  she  had  vague  dreams  of  the  tropics — visions  of 
palm-trees  and  white  lilies,  the  Pyramids  and  minarets,  as 
fantastic  as  her  dreams  of  Shakspeare.  But  she  loved 
the  island  and  the  island  trees ;  she  loved  the  wild  larches, 
the  tall  spires  of  the  spruces  bossed  with  lighter  green, 
the  gray  pines,  and  the  rings  of  the  juniper.  She  had  a 
peculiar  feeling  about  trees.  "When  she  was  a  little  girl 
she  used  to  whisper  to  them  how  much  she  loved  them, 
and  even  now  she  felt  that  they  noticed  her.  Several 
times  since  these  recent  beginnings  of  care  she  had  turn 
ed  back  and  gone  over  part  of  the  path  a  second  time, 
because  she  felt  that  she  had  not  been  as  observant  as 
usual  of  her  old  friends,  and  that  they  would  be  grieved 
by  the  inattention.  But  this  she  never  told. 

There  was,  however,  less  and  less  time  for  walking  in 
the  woods ;  there  was  much  to  do  at  home,  and  she  was 
faithful  in  doing  it:  every  spring  of  the  little  household 
machinery  felt  her  hand  upon  it,  keeping  it  in  order. 
The  clothes  she  made  for  Tita  and  the  boys,  the  dinners 


96  ANNE. 

she  provided  from  scanty  materials,  the  locks  and  latches 
she  improvised,  the  paint  she  mixed  and  applied,  the 
cheerfulness  and  spirit  with  which  she  labored  on  day 
after  day,  were  evidences  of  a  great  courage  and  un 
selfishness  ;  and  if  the  garments  were  not  always  success 
ful  as  regards  shape,  nor  the  dinners  always  good,  she 
was  not  disheartened,  hut  bore  the  fault-findings  cheer 
fully,  promising  to  do  better  another  time.  For  they  all 
found  fault  with  her,  the  boys  loudly,  Tita  quietly,  but 
with  a  calm  pertinacity  that  always  gained  its  little  point. 
Even  Miss  Lois  'thought  sometimes  that  Anne  was  care 
less,  and  told  her  so.  For  Miss  Lois  never  concealed  her 
light  under  a  bushel.  The  New  England  woman  believed 
that  household  labor  held  the  first  place  among  a  woman's 
duties  and  privileges ;  and  if  the  housekeeper  spent  four 
teen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  in  her  task,  she  was 
but  fulfilling  her  destiny  as  her  Creator  had  intended. 
Anne  was  careless  in  the  matter  of  piece-bags,  having 
only  two,  whereas  four,  for  linen  and  cotton,  colors  and 
black  materials,  were,  as  every  one  knew,  absolutely  ne 
cessary.  There  was  also  the  systematic  halving  of  sheets 
and  resewing  them  at  the  first  signs  of  wear  somewhat 
neglected,  and  also  a  particularity  as  to  the  saving  of 
string.  Even  the  vaguely  lost,  thought-wandering  fa 
ther,  too,  finding  that  his  comforts  diminished,  spoke  of 
it,  not  with  complaint  so  much  as  surprise ;  and  then  the 
daughter  restored  what  he  had  missed  at  any  sacrifice. 
All  this  was  done  without  the  recognition  by  anybody  that 
it  was  much  to  do.  Anne  did  not  think  of  it  in  that  way, 
and  no  one  thought  for  her.  For  they  were  all  so  ac 
customed  to  her  strong,  cheerful  spirit  that  they  took 
what  she  did  as  a  matter  of  course.  Dr.  Gastoii  under 
stood  something  of  the  life  led  at  the  Agency ;  but  he  too 
had  fallen  into  a  way  of  resting  upon  the  girl.  She  took 
a  rapid  survey  of  his  small  housekeeping  whenever  she 
came  up  to  his  cottage  for  a  lesson,  which  was  not  as  often 
now  as  formerly,  owing  to  her  manifold  home  duties. 
But  Pere  Michaux  shook  his  head.  He  believed  that 
all  should  live  their  lives,  and  that  one  should  not  be  a 
slave  to  others ;  that  the  young  should  be  young,  and  that 


ANNE.  97 

some  natural' simple  pleasure  should  be  put  into  each 
twenty-four  hours.  To  all  his  flock  he  preached  this 
doctrine.  They  might  he  poor,  but  children  should  be 
made  happy ;  they  might  be  poor,  but  youth  should  not 
be  overwhelmed  with  the  elders1  cares;  they  might  be 
poor,  but  they  could  have  family  love  round  the  poorest 
hearthstone ;  and  there  was  always  time  for  a  little  plea 
sure,  if  they  would  seek  it  simply  and  moderately.  The 
fine  robust  old  man  lived  in  an  atmosphere  above  the  sub 
tleties  of  his  leaner  brethren  in  cities  farther  southward, 
and  he  was  left  untrammelled  in  his  water  diocese.  Priv 
ileges  are  allowed  to  scouts  preceding  the  army  in  an  In 
dian  country,  because  it  is  not  every  man  who  can  be  a 
scout.  Not  but  that  the  old  priest  understood  the  mys 
teries,  the  introverted  gaze,  and  indwelling  thoughts  that 
belong  to  one  side  of  his  religion ;  they  were  a  part  of  his 
experience,  and  he  knew  their  beauty  and  their  dan 
gers.  They  were  good  for  some  minds,  he  said;  but  it 
was  a  strange  fact,  which  he  had  proved  more  than  once 
during  the  long  course  of  his  ministry,  that  the  minds 
which  needed  them  the  least  loved  them  the  most  dearly, 
revelled  in  them,  and  clung  to  them  with  pertinacity, 
in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  turn  them  into  more  practical! 
channels. 

In  all  his  broad  parish  he  had  no  penitent  so  long-wind 
ed,  exhaustive,  and  self-centred  as  little  Tita.  He  took 
excellent  care  of  the  child,  was  very  patient  with  her  small 
ceremonies  and  solemnities,  tried  gently  to  lead  her 
aright,  and,  with  rare  wisdom,  in  her  own  way,  not  his. 
But  through  it  all,  in  his  frequent  visits  to  the  Agency, 
and  in  the  visits  of  the  Douglas  family  to  the  hermitage, 
his  real  interest  was  centred  in  the  Protestant  sister, 
the  tall  unconscious  young  girl  who  had  not  yet,  as 
he  said  to  himself,  begun  to  live.  He  shook  his  head 
often  as  he  thought  of  her.  "In  France,  even  in  Eng 
land,  she  would  be  guarded,"  he  said  to  himself;  "but 
here !  It  is  an  excellent  country,  this  America  of  theirs, 
for  the  pioneer,  the  New-Eiiglander,  the  adventurer,  and 
the  farmer;  but  for  a  girl  like  Anne  ?  No."  And  then, 
if  Anne  was  present,  and  happened  to  meet  his  eye,  she 

7 


98  ANNE. 

smiled  back  so  frankly  that  he  forgot  his  fears.  ' '  After 
all,  I  suppose  there  are  hundreds  of  such  girls  in  this 
country  of  theirs,"  he  admitted,  in  a  grumbling  way, 
to  his  French  mind,  "coming  up  like  flowers  every 
where,  without  any  guardianship  at  all.  But  it  is  all 
wrong,  all  wrong." 

The  priest  generally  placed  America  as  a  nation  in  the 
hands  of  possessive  pronouns  of  the  third  person  plural ; 
it  was  a  safe  way  of  avoiding  responsibility,  and  of  be 
ing  as  scornful,  without  offending  any  one,  as  he  pleased. 
One  must  have  some  outlet. 

The  summer  wore  on.  Rast  wrote  frequently,  and 
Anne,  writing  the  first  letters  of  her  life  in  reply,  found 
that  she  liked  to  write.  She  saved  in  her  memory  all 
kinds  of  things  to  tell  him:  about  their  favorite  trees, 
about  the  birds  that  had  nests  in  the  garden  that  season, 
about  the  fishermen  and  their  luck,  about  the  unusual 
quantity  of  raspberries  on  the  mainland,  about  the  boys, 
about  Tita.  Something,  too,  about  Bacon  and  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  selections  from  whose  volumes  she  was  now 
reading  under  the  direction  of  the  chaplain.  But  she 
never  put  down  any  of  her  own  thoughts,  opinions,  or 
feelings :  her  letters  were  curious  examples  of  purely  im 
personal  objective  writing.  Egotism,  the  under-current 
of  most  long  letters  as  of  most  long  conversations  also, 
the  telling  of  how  this  or  that  was  due  to  us,  affected 
us,  was  regarded  by  us,  was  prophesied,  was  commended, 
was  objected  to,  was  feared,  was  thoroughly  understood, 
was  held  in  restraint,  was  despised  or  scorned  by  us,  and 
all  our  opinions  on  the  subject,  which,  however  import 
ant  in  itself,  we  present  always  surrounded  by  a  large 
indefinite  aureola  of  our  own  personality — this  was  entire 
ly  wanting  in  Anne  Douglas's  letters  and  conversation. 
Perhaps  if  she  had  had  a  girl  friend  of  her  own  age  she 
might  have  exchanged  with  her  those  little  confidences, 
speculations,  and  fancies  which  are  the  first  steps  toward 
independent  thought,  those  mazy  whispered  discussions 
in  which  girls  delight,  the  beginnings  of  poetry  and  ro 
mance,  the  beginnings,  in  fact,  of  their  own  personal  in 
dividual  consciousness  and  life.  But  she  had  only  East* 


ANNE.  99 

and  that  was  not  the  same  thing.  East  always  took  the 
lead ;  and  he  had  so  many  opinions  of  his  own  that  there 
was  no  time  to  discuss,  or  even  inquire  about,  hers. 

In  the  mean  time  young  Pronarido  was  growing  into 
manhood  at  the  rate  of  a  year  in  a  month.  His  handsome 
face,  fine  bearing,  generous  ways,  and  incessant  activity 
both  of  limb  and  brain  gave  him  a  leader's  place  among 
the  Western  students,  who  studied  well,  were  careless  in 
dress  and  manner,  spent  their  money,  according  to  the 
Western  fashion,  like  princes,  and  had  a  peculiar  dry 
humor  of  their  own,  delivered  with  lantern-jawed  solem 
nity. 

Young  Pronando's  preparation  for  college  had  been 
far  better  than  that  of  most  of  his  companions,  owing  to 
Dr.  Gaston's  care.  The  boy  apprehended  with  great  ra 
pidity — apprehended  perhaps  more  than  he  comprehend 
ed  :  he  did  not  take  the  time  to  comprehend.  He  floated 
lightly  down  the  stream  of  college  life.  His  comrades 
liked  him ;  the  young  Western  professors,  quick,  uncere 
monious,  practical  men,  were  constantly  running  against 
little  rocks  which  showed  a  better  training  than  their  own, 
and  were  therefore  shy  about  finding  fault  with  him ;  and 
the  old  president,  an  Eastern  man,  listened  furtively  to 
his  Oxford  pronunciation  of  Greek,  and  sighed  in  spite  oi 
himself  arid  his  large  salary,  hating  the  new  bare  white- 
painted  flourishing  institution  over  which  he  presided 
with  a  fresher  hatred — the  hatred  of  an  exile.  For  there 
was  not  a  tree  on  the  college  grounds :  Young  America 
always  cuts  down  all  his  trees  as  a  first  step  toward  civil 
ization  ;  then,  after  an  interregnum,  when  all  the  kings 
of  the  forest  have  been  laid  low,  he  sets  out  small  saplings 
in  whitewashed  tree-boxes,  and  watches  and  tends  them 
with  fervor. 

Rast  learned  rapidly — more  things  than  one.  The 
school  for  girls,  which,  singularly  enough,  in  American 
towns,  is  always  found  flourishing  close  under  the  walls 
of  a  college,  on  the  excellent  and  heroic  principle,  per 
haps,  of  resisting  temptation  rather  than  fleeing  from  it, 
was  situated  here  at  convenient  distance  for  a  variety  of 
strict  rules  on  both  sides,  which  gave  interest  and  excite- 


100  ANNE. 

ment  to  the  day.  Every  morning-  Miss  Corinna  Haws  and 
her  sister  girded  themselves  for  the  contest  with  fresh- 
rubbed  spectacles  and  vigilance,  and  every  morning  the 
girls  eluded  them;  that  is,  some  of  the  girls,  namely, 
Louise  Ray  and  Kate  and  Fanny  Meadows,  cousins,  ri 
vals,  and  beauties  of  the  Western  river-country  type, 
where  the  full  life  and  languor  of  the  South  have  fused 
somewhat  the  old  inherited  New  England  delicacy  and 
fragile  contours.  These  three  young  girls  were  all  in 
terested  in  handsome  Hast  in  their  fanciful,  innocent, 
sentimental  way.  They  glanced  at  him  furtively  in 
church  on  Sunday;  they  took  walks  of  miles  to  catch  a 
distant  glimpse  of  him ;  but  they  would  have  run  away 
like  frightened  fawns  if  he  had  approached  nearer. 
They  wrote  notes  which  they  never  sent,  but  carried  in 
their  pockets  for  days ;  they  had  deep  secrets  to  tell  each 
other  about  how  they  had  heard  that  somebody  had  told 
somebody  else  that  the  Juniors  were  going  to  play  ball 
that  afternoon  in  Payne's  meadow,  and  that  if  they  could 
only  persuade  Miss  Miriam  to  go  round  by  the  hill,  they 
could  see  them,  and  not  so  very  far  off  either,  only  two 
wheat  fields  and  the  river  between.  Miss  Miriam  was 
the  second  Miss  Haws,  good-tempered  and — near-sighted. 
That  the  three  girls  were  interested  in  one  and  the 
same  person  was  part  of  the  pleasure  of  the  affair ;  each 
would  have  considered  it  a  very  dreary  amusement  to  be 
interested  all  alone.  The  event  of  the  summer,  the  com 
et  of  that  season's  sky,  was  an  invitation  to  a  small  party 
in  the  town,  where  it  was  understood  that  young  Pro- 
nando,  with  five  or  six  of  his  companions,  would  be  pres 
ent.  Miss  Haws  accepted  occasional  invitations  for  her 
pupils,  marshalling  them  in  a  bevy,  herself  robed  in  pea- 
greeii  silk,  like  an  ancient  mermaid:  she  said  that  it  gave 
them  dignity.  It  did.  The  stern  dignity  and  silence 
almost  solemn  displayed  by  East's  three  worshippers  when 
they  found  themselves  actually  in  the  same  room  with 
him  were  something  preternatural.  They  moved  stiffly, 
as  if  their  elbows  and  ankles  were  out  of  joint;  they 
spoke  to  each  other  cautiously  in  the  lowest  whispers, 
with  their  under  jaws  rigid,  and  a  difficulty  with  their 


ANNE.  :101 


labials  ;  they  moved  their  eyes  carefully  eveiy  where  S£, 
toward  the  point  where  he  was  standing,  yet  knew  exact 
ly  where  he  was  every  moment  of  the  time.  When  he 
approached  the  quadrille  which  was  formed  in  one  corner 
by  Miss  Haws's  young  ladies,  dancing  virginally  by  them 
selves,  they  squeezed  each  others'  hands  convulsively 
when  they  passed  in  "ladies'  chain,"  in  token  of  the 
great  fact  that  he  was  looking  on.  When,  after  the 
dance,  they  walked  up  and  down  in  the  hall,  arm  in  arm, 
they  trod  upon  each  other's  slippers  as  sympathetic  per 
ception  of  the  intensity  of  his  presence  on  the  stairs. 
What  an  evening  !  How  crowded  full  of  emotions  !  Yet 
the  outward  appearance  was  simply  that  of  three  shy, 
awkward  gL'ls  in  white  muslin,  keeping  close  together, 
and  as  far  as  possible  from  a  handsome,  gay-hearted,  fast- 
talking  youth  who  never  once  noticed  them.  O  the  im 
aginative,  happy,  shy  fancies  of  foolish  school-girls  !  It 
is  a  question  whether  the  real  love  which  comes  later 
ever  yields  that  wild,  fairy-like  romance  which  these  early 
attachments  exhale  ;  the  very  element  of  reality  weights 
it  down,  and  makes  it  less  heavenly  fair. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer  Rast  had  acquired  a  deep  ex 
perience  in  life  (so  he  thought),  a  downy  little  golden 
mustache,  and  a  better  opinion  of  himself  than  ever.  The 
world  is  very  kind  to  a  handsome  boy  of  frank  and  spirit 
ed  bearing,  one  who  looks  as  though  he  intended  to 
mount  and  ride  to  victory.  The  proud  vigor  of  such  a 
youth  is  pleasant  to  tired  eyes  ;  he  is  so  sure  he  will  suc 
ceed!  And  most  persons  older,  although  knowing  the 
world  better  and  not  so  sure,  give  him  as  he  passes  a  smile 
and  friendly  word,  and  wish  him  godspeed.  It  is  not 
quite  fair,  perhaps,  to  other  youths  of  equal  merit  but 
another  bearing,  yet  Nature  orders  it  so.  The  hand 
some,  strong,  confident  boy  who  looks  her  in  the  face 
writh  daring  courage  wins  from  her  always  a  fine  starting- 
place  in  the  race  of  life,  which  seems  to  advance  him  far 
beyond  his  companions.  Seems  ;  but  the  end  is  far  away. 

Rast  did  not  return  to  the  island  during  the  summer 
vacation  ;  Dr.  Gaston  wished  him  to  continue  his  studies 
with  a  tutor,  and  as  the  little  college  town  was  now  ra- 


102  ANNE. 

dianp.  with -at  mild  yammer  gayety,  the  young  man  was 
willing  to  remain.  He  wrote  to  Anne  frequently,  giving 
abstracts  of  his  life,  lists  of  little  events  like  statistics  in 
a  report.  He  did  this  regularly,  and  omitted  nothing, 
for  the  letters  were  his  conscience.  When  they  were 
once  written  and  sent,  however,  off  he  went  to  new 
pleasures.  It  must  be  added  as  well  that  he  always 
sought  the  post-office  eagerly  for  Anne's  replies,  and 
placed  them  in  his  pocket  with  satisfaction.  They  were 
sometimes  unread,  or  half  read,  for  days,  awaiting  a  con 
venient  season,  but  they  were  there. 

Anne's  letters  were  long,  they  were  pleasant,  they  were 
never  exciting — the  very  kind  to  keep ;  like  friends  who 
last  a  lifetime,  but  who  never  give  us  one  quickened 
pulse.  Alone  in  his  room,  or  stretched  on  the  grass  un 
der  a  tree,  reading  them,  Rast  felt  himself  strongly  car 
ried  back  to  his  old  life  on  the  island,  and  he  did  not  re 
sist  the  feeling.  His  plans  for  the  future  were  as  yet 
vague,  but  Anne  was  always  a  part  of  his  dream. 

But  this  youth  lived  so  vigorously  and  fully  and  hap 
pily  in  the  present  that  there  was  not  much  time  for  the 
future  and  for  dreams.  He  seldom  thought.  What  oth 
er  people  thought,  he  felt. 


ANNE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Into  the  Silent  Land! 

Ah !   who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  0  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land? 

"0  Land,  0  Land, 

For  all  the  broken-hearted, 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
To  the  land  of  the  great  Departed — 
Into  the  Silent  Land!" 

— LONGFELLOW.     From  the  German. 

EARLY  in  September  William  Douglas  failed  suddenly. 
From  taciturnity  he  sank  into  silence,  from  quiet  into 
lethargy.  He  rose  in  'the  morning,  but  after  that  effort 
he  became  like  a  breathing  statue,  and  sat  all  day  in  his 
arm-chair  without  stirring  or  noticing  anything.  If  they 
brought  him  food  he  ate  it,  but  he  did  not  speak  or  answer 
their  questions  by  motion  or  gesture.  The  fort  surgeon 
was  puzzled ;  it  was  evidently  not  paralysis.  He  was  a 
new-comer  on  the  island,  and  he  asked  many  questions 
as  to  the  past.  Anne  sincerely,  Miss  Lois  resolutely,  de 
nied  that  there  had  ever  been  any  trouble  with  the  brain ; 
Dr.  Gaston  drummed  on  the  table,  and  answered  sharply 
that  all  men  of  intellect  were  more  or  less  mad.  But 
the  towns-people  smiled,  and  tapped  their  foreheads  signif 
icantly;  and  the  new  surgeon  had  noticed  in  the  course 
of  his  experience  that,  with  time  for  observation,  the 
towns-people  are  generally  right.  So  he  gave  a  few 
medicines,  ordered  a  generous  diet,  and  looking  about 
him  for  some  friend  of  the  family  who  could  be  trusted, 
selected  at  last  Pere  Michaux.  For  Miss  Lois  would  not 
treat  him  even  civilly,  bristling  when  he  approached  like 


104  ANNE. 

a  hedge-hog;  and  with  her  frank  eyes  meeting  his,  he 
found  it  impossible  to  speak  to  Anne.  But  he  told  Pere 
Michaux  the  true  state  of  his  patient,  and  asked  him  to 
break  the  tidings  to  the  family. 

"He  can  not  live  long,"  he  said. 

" Is  it  so  ?"  said  Pere  Michaux.  "God's  will  be  done. 
Poor  Anne!" 

' '  An  odd  lot  of  children  he  has  in  that  ramshackle  old 
house  of  his,"  continued  the  surgeon.  "Two  sets,  I 
should  say." 

"Yes;  the  second  wife  was  a  French  girl." 

"With  Indian  blood?" 

"Yes." 

' '  I  thought  so.  Who  is  to  have  charge  of  them  ?  The 
boys  will  take  to  the  woods,  I  suppose,  but  that  little  Tita 
is  an  odd  specimen.  She  would  make  quite  a  sensation 
in  New  York  a  few  years  later." 

"  May  she  never  reach  there!"  said  the  old  priest,  fer 
vently. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  But  who  is  to  .have  the 
child?" 

"Her  sister  will  take  charge  of  her." 

' '  Miss  Aime  ?  Yes,  she  will  do  her  best,  of  course ;  she 
is  a  fine,  frank  young  Saxon.  But  I  doubt  if  she  under 
stands  that  elfish  little  creature." 

"She  understands  her  better  than  we  do,"  said  the 
priest,  with  some  heat. 

' '  Ah  ?  You  know  best,  of  course ;  I  speak  merely  as 
an  outsider, "  answered  the  new  surgeon,  going  off  about 
his  business. 

Pere  Michaux  decided  that  he  would  tell  Anne  herself. 
He  went  to  the  house  for  the  purpose,  and  called  her  out 
on  the  old  piazza.  But  when  she  stood  before  him,  her 
violet  eyes  meeting  his  without  a  suspicion  of  the  tidings 
he  brought,  his  heart  failed  him  suddenly.  He  compre 
hended  for  the  first  time  what  it  would  be  to  her,  and, 
making  some  chance  inquiry,  he  asked  to  see  Miss  Lois, 
and  turned  away.  Anne  went  in,  and  Miss  Lois  came 
out.  The  contrast  between  the  priest  and  the  New  Eng 
land  woman  was  more  marked  than  usual  as  they  stood 


ALARMED,  HE    BENT    OVER    HER.' 


ANNE.  105 

there  facing  each  other  on  the  old  piazza,  he  less  com 
posed  than  he  ordinarily  was  on  account  of  what  he  had 
to  tell.  But  it  never  occurred  to  him  for  a  moment  that 
Miss  Lois  would  falter.  Why  should  she  ?  He  told  her. 
She  sank  down  at  his  feet  as  though  she  had  fallen  there 
and  died. 

Alarmed,  he  bent  over  her,  and  in  the  twilight  saw 
that  she  was  not  dead ;  her  features  were  working  strange 
ly  ;  her  hands  were  clinched  over  her  breast ;  her  faded 
eyes  stared  at  him  behind  the  spectacles  as  though  he 
were  miles  away.  He  tried  to  raise  her.  She  struck  at 
him  almost  fiercely.  "Let  me  aloiie,"she  said,  in  a 
muffled  voice.  Then,  still  lying  where  she  fell,  she  threw 
up  her  arms  and  wailed  once  or  twice,  not  loudly,  but  with 
a  struggling,  inarticulate  sound,  as  a  person  cries  out  in 
sleep.  Poor  old  Lois !  it  was  the  last  wail  of  her  love. 
But  even  then  she  did  not  recognize  it.  Nor  did  the 
priest.  Pale,  with  uncertain  steps  and  shaking  hands, 
yet  tearless,  the  stricken  woman  raised  herself  by  the  aid 
of  the  bench,  crossed  the  piazza,  went  down  the  path  and 
into  the  street,  Pere  Michaux's  eyes  following  her  in  be 
wilderment.  She  was  evidently  going  home,  and  her 
prim,  angular  shape  looked  strangely  bare  and  uncover 
ed  in  the  lack  of  bonnet  and  shawl,  for  through  all  the 
years  she  had  lived  on  the  island  she  had  never  once 
been  seen  in  the  open  air  without  them.  The  precision 
of  her  bonnet  strings  was  a  matter  of  conscience.  The 
priest  went  away  also.  And  thus  it  happened  that  Anne 
was  not  told  at  all. 

When,  late  in  the  evening,  Miss  Lois  returned,  grayly 
pale,  but  quiet,  as  she  entered  the  hall  a  cry  met  her 
ears  and  rang  through  the  house.  It  had  come  sooner 
than  any  one  expected.  The  sword  of  sorrow,  which  soon 
er  or  later  must  pierce  all  loving  hearts,  had  entered 
Anne  Douglas's  breast.  Her  father  was  dead. 

He  had  died  suddenly,  peacefully  and  without  pain, 
passing  away  in  sleep.  Anne  was  with  him,  and  Tita,  jeal 
ously  watchful  to  the  last.  No  one  else  was  in  the  room 
at  the  moment.  Pere  Michaux,  coming  in,  had  been  the 
first  to  perceive  the  change. 


106  ANNE. 

Tita  drew  away  quickly  to  a  distant  corner,  and  kneel 
ing  down  where  she  could  still  see  everything  that  went 
on,  began  repeating  prayers ;  hut  Anne,  with  a  wild  cry, 
threw  herself  down  beside  her  dead,  sobbing,  holding  his 
hand,  and  calling  his  name  again  and  again.  She  would 
not  believe  that  he  was  gone. 

Ah,  well,  many  of  us  know  the  sorrow.  A  daughter's 
love  for  a  kind  father  is  a  peculiarly  dependent,  cling 
ing  affection ;  it  is  mixed  with  the  careless  happiness  of 
childhood,  which  can  never  come  again.  Into  the  fa 
ther's  grave  the  daughter,  sometimes  a  gray-haired  wo 
man,  lays  away  forever  the  little  pet  names  and  memor 
ies  which  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  are  but  foolishness. 
Even  though  happy  in  her  woman's  lot,  she  weeps  con 
vulsively  here  for  a  while  with  a  sorrow  that  nothing 
can  comfort;  110  other  love  so  protecting  and  unselfish 
will  ever  be  hers  again. 

Anne  was  crushed  by  her  grief ;  it  seemed  to  those  who 
watched  her  that  she  revealed  a  new  nature  in  her  sor 
row.  Dr.  Gaston  and  Pere  Michaux  spoke  of  it  to  each 
other,  but  could  find  little  to  say  to  the  girl  herself;  she 
had,  as  it  were,  drifted  beyond  their  reach,  far  out  on  an 
unknown  sea.  They  prayed  for  her,  and  went  silent 
ly  away,  only  to  come  back  within  the  hour  and  meet 
again  on  the  threshold,  recognizing  each  other's  errand. 
They  were  troubled  by  the  change  in  this  young  creature, 
upon  whom  they  had  all,  in  a  certain  way,  depended. 
Singularly  enough,  Miss  Lois  did  not  seem  to  appreciate 
Anne's  condition :  she  was  suffering  too  deeply  herself. 
The  whole  of  her  repressed  nature  was  in  revolt.  But 
faithful  to  the  unconscious  secret  of  her  life,  she  still 
thought  the  wild  pain  of  her  heart  was  "sorrow  for  a 
friend." 

She  went  about  as  usual,  attending  to  household  tasks 
for  both  homes.  She  was  unchanged,  yet  totally  changed. 
There  was  a  new  tension  about  her  mouth,  and  an  un 
wonted  silence,  but  her  hands  were  as  busy  as  ever. 
Days  had  passed  after  the  funeral  before  she  began  to 
perceive,  even  slightly,  the  broken  condition  of  Anne. 
The  girl  herself  was  the  first  to  come  back  to  the  present, 


ANNE.  107 

in  the  necessity  for  asking  one  of  those  sad  questions 
which  often  raise  their  heads  as  soon  as  the  coffin  is  borne 
away.  "Miss  Lois,  there  are  bills  to  be  paid,  and  I 
have  no  money.  Do  you  know  anything  of  our  real  in 
come  ?" 

The  old  habits  of  the  elder  woman  stirred  a  little ;  but 
she  answered,  vaguely,  "No." 

"We  must  look  through  dear  papa's  papers,"  said 
Anne,  her  voice  breaking  as  she  spoke  the  name.  ' '  He 
received  few  letters,  none  at  all  lately ;  whatever  he  had, 
then,  must  be  here." 

Miss  Lois  assented,  still  silently,  and  the  two  begun 
their  task.  Anne,  with  a  quivering  lip,  unlocked  her 
father's  desk.  William  Douglas  had  not  been  a  relic- 
loving  man.  He  had  lived,  he  had  loved ;  but  memory 
was  sufficient  for  him ;  he  needed  no  tokens.  So,  amid  a 
hundred  mementos  of  nature,  they  found  nothing  per 
sonal,  not  even  a  likeness  of  Anne's  mother,  or  lock  of 
her  curling  brown  hair.  And  amid  a  mass  of  miscella 
neous  papers,  writings  on  every  philosophic  and  imagina 
tive  subject,  they  found  but  one  relating  to  money — some 
figures  jotted  down,  with  a  date  affixed,  the  sum  far  from 
large,  the  date  three  years  before.  Below,  a  later  line  was 
added,  as  if  (for  the  whole  was  vague)  so  much  had  gone, 
and  this  was  the  remainder;  the  date  of  this  last  line 
was  eight  months  back. 

' '  Perhaps  this  is  it, "  said  Anne ;  ' '  perhaps  this  is  what 
he  had." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Lois,  mechanically. 

They  went  on  with  the  search,  and  at  last  came  to  a 
package  tied  in  brown  paper,  which  contained  money; 
opening  it,  they  counted  the  contents. 

"Three  hundred  and  ten  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents," 
said  Anne. 

Miss  Lois  took  a  pen  and  made  a  calculation,  still  with 
the  manner  of  a  machine.  ' '  That  is  about  what  would  be 
left  by  this  time,  at  the  rate  of  the  sums  you  have  had, 
supposing  the  memorandum  is  what  you  think  it  is,"  she 
said,  rubbing  her  forehead  with  a  shadowy  imitation  of 
her  old  habit. 


108  ANNE. 

"  It  is  a  large  sum,"  said  Anne. 

Nothing  more  was  found.  It  appeared,  therefore,  that 
the  five  children  of  William  Douglas  were  left  alone  in 
the  world  with  exactly  three  hundred  and  ten  dollars  and 
eighty-five  cents. 

Dr.  Gaston  and  Pere  Michaux  learned  the  result  that 
day ;  the  story  spread  through  the  village  and  up  to  the 
fort.  "I  never  heard  anything  so  extraordinary  in  my 
life,"  said  Mrs.  Cromer.  "That  a  man  like  Dr.  Douglas 
should  have  gone  on  for  the  last  four  or  five  years  delib 
erately  living  on  his  capital,  seeing  it  go  dollar  by  dollar, 
without  making  one  effort  to  save  it,  or  to  earn  an  income 
— a  father  with  children !  I  shall  always  believe,  after 
this,  that  the  villagers  were  right,  and  that  his  mind  was 
affected." 

The  chaplain  stopped  these  comments  gruffly,  and  the 
fort  ladies  forgave  him  on  account  of  the  tremor  in  his 
voice.  He  left  them,  and  went  across  to  his  little  book- 
clogged  cottage  with  the  first  indications  of  age  showing 
in  his  gait. 

"It  is  a  blow  to  him;  he  is  very  fond  of  Anne,  and 
hoped  everything  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Bryden.  "I  pre 
sume  he  would  adopt  her  if  he  could;  but  there  are  the 
other  children." 

' '  They  might  go  to  their  mother's  relatives,  I  should 
think,"  said  Mrs.  Rankin. 

* '  They  could,  but  Anne  will  not  allow  it.  You  will 
see." 

"I  suppose  our  good  chaplain  has  nothing  to  bequeath, 
even  if  he  should  adopt  Anne  ?" 

' '  No,  he  has  no  property,  and  has  saved  nothing  from 
his  little  salary ;  it  has  all  gone  into  books, "  answered  the 
colonel's  wife. 

Another  week  passed.  By  that  time  Dr.  Gaston  and 
Pere  Michaux  together  had  brought  the  reality  clearly 
before  Anne's  eyes ;  for  the  girl  had  heretofore  held  such 
small  sums  of  money  in  her  hands  at  any  one  time  that 
the  amount  found  in  the  desk  had.  seemed  to  her  large. 
Pere  Michaux  began  the  small  list  of  resources  by  pro 
posing  that  the  four  children  should  go  at  once  to  theii? 


ANNE.  109 

uncle,  their  mother's  brother,  who  was  willing  to  receive 
them  and  give  them  a  home,  such  as  it  was,  among  his  own 
brood  of  black-eyed  little  ones.  Anne  decidedly  refused. 
Dr.  Gastoii  then  asked  her  to  come  to  him,  and  be  his 
dear  daughter  as  long  as  he  lived. 

' '  I  must  not  come  with  them,  and  I  can  not  come  with 
out  them,"  was  Anne's  reply. 

There  remained  Miss  Lois.  But  she  seemed  entirely 
unconscious  of  any  pressing  necessity  for  haste  in  regard 
to  the  affairs  of  the  little  household,  coming  and  going 
as  usual,  but  without  words ;  while  people  round  her,  with 
that  virtuous  readiness  as  to  the  duties  of  their  neighbors 
which  is  so  helpful  in  a  wicked  world,  said  loudly  and 
frequently  that  she  was  the  nearest  friend,  and  ought 
to  do —  Here  followed  a  variety  of  suggestions,  which 
amounted  in  the  aggregate  to  everything.  At  last,  as 
often  happens,  it  was  an  outside  voice  that  brought  the 
truth  before  her. 

' '  And  what  are  you  thinking  of  doing,  dear  Miss  Lois, 
for  the  five  poor  orphans  ?"  asked  the  second  Miss  Mac- 
dougall  while  paying  a  visit  of  general  condolence  at  the 
church-house. 

"Why,  what  should  I  do  ?"  said  Miss  Lois,  with  a  faint 
remembrance  of  her  old  vigilant  pride.  "They  want 
nothing." 

' '  They  want  nothing !  And  not  one  hundred  dollars 
apiece  for  them  in  the  wide  world !"  exclaimed  Miss  Jean. 
"Surely  you're  joking,  my  dear.  Here's  Dr.  Gaston 
wishing  to  take  Anne,  as  is  most  kind  and  natural ;  but 
she  will  not  leave  those  children.  Although  why  they 
should  not  go  back  to  the  stratum  from  which  they  came 
is  a  mystery  to  me.  She  can  never  make  anything  of 
them:  mark  my  words." 

Miss  Jean  paused ;  but  whether  Miss  Lois  marked  her 
words  or  not,  she  made  no  response,  but  sat  gazing  straight 
at  the  wall.  Miss  Jean,  however,  knew  her  duty,  and  did 
it  like  a  heroine  of  old.  "We  thought,  perhaps,  dear 
Miss  Lois,  that  you  would  like  to  take  them  for  a  time," 
she  said,  ' '  seeing  that  Anne  has  proved  herself  so  obsti 
nate  as  to  the  other  arrangements  proposed.  The  village 


HO  ANNE. 

has  thought  so  generally,  and  I  am  not  the  one  to  hide  it 
from  you,  having  been  taught  by  my  lamented  parent  to 
honor  and  abide  by  veracity  the  most  precise.  We  could 
all  help  you  a  little  in  clothing  them  for  the  present,  and 
we  will  contribute  to  their  support  a  fish  now  and  then, 
a  bag  of  meal,  a  barrel  of  potatoes,  which  we  would  do 
gladly  —  right  gladly,  I  do  assure  you.  For  no  one 
likes  to  think  of  Dr.  Douglas's  children  being  on  the 
town. " 

The  homely  phrase  roused  Miss  Lois  at  last.  "What 
in  the  world  are  you  talking  about,  Jean  Macdougall  ?"  she 
exclaimed,  in  wrath.  "On  the  town!  Are  you  clean 
daft  ?  On  the  town,  indeed !  Clear  out  of  my  house  this 
moment,  you  lying,  evil-speaking  woman!" 

The  second  Miss  Macdougall  rose  in  majesty,  and  drew 
her  black  silk  visite  round  her.  "Of  whom  ye  are  speak 
ing,  Miss  Hinsdale,  I  knaw  not,"  she  said,  growing  Scotch 
in  her  anger;  "but  I  believe  ye  hae  lost  your  wits.  I 
tak'  my  departure  freely,  and  not  as  sent  by  one  who 
has  strangely  forgotten  the  demeanor  of  a  leddy." 

With  hands  folded,  she  swept  toward  the  door,  all  the 
flowers  011  her  dignified  bonnet  swaying  perceptibly. 
Pausing  on  the  threshold,  she  added,  ' '  As  a  gude  Chris 
tian,  and  a  keeper  of  my  word,  I  still  say,  Miss  Hinsdale, 
in  spite  of  insults,  that  in  the  matter  of  a  fish  or  two,  or  a 
barrel  of  potatoes  now  and  then,  ye  can  count  upon  the 
Macdougalls. " 

Left  alone,  Miss  Lois  put  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet  with 
feverish  haste,  and  went  over  to  the  Agency.  Anne 
was  in  the  sitting-room,  and  the  children  were  with 
her. 

"Anne,  of  course  you  and  the  children  are  coming  to 
live  with  me  whenever  you  think  it  best  to  leave  this 
house,"  said  Miss  Lois,  appearing  on  the  threshold  like  an 
excited  ghost  in  spectacles.  ' '  You  never  thought  or 
planned  anything  else,  I  hope  ?" 

"No,"  said  Anne,  frankly,  "I  did  not — at  least  for  the 
present.  I  knew  you  would  help  us,  Miss  Lois,  although 
you  did  not  speak." 

"Speak!  was  there  any  need  of  speaking?"  said  the 


ANNE.  HI 

elder  woman,  bursting  into  a  few  dry,  harsh  sobs.  ' '  You 
are  all  I  have  in  the  world,  Anne.  How  could  you 
mistrust  me  ?" 

"  I  did  not,"  said  Anne. 

And  then  the  two  women  kissed  each  other,  and  it  was 
all  understood  without  further  words.  And  thus,  through 
the  intervention  of  the  second  Miss  Macdougall  (who 
found  herself  ill  rewarded  for  her. pains),  Lois  Hinsdale 
came  out  from  the  watch-chamber  of  her  dead  to  real 
life  again,  took  up  her  burden,  and  went  on. 

Anne  now  unfolded  her  plans,  for  she  had  been  obliged 
to  invent  plans:  necessity  forced  her  forward.  "We 
must  all  come  to  you  for  a  time,  dear  Miss  Lois ;  but  I 
am  young  and  strong,  and  I  can  work.  I  wish  to  ed 
ucate  the  boys  as  father  would  have  wished  them  ed 
ucated.  Do  you  ask  what  I  can  do  ?  I  think — that  is, 
I  hope — that  I  can  teach. "^  Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  she 
added,  "I  promised  father  that  I  would  do  all  I  could  for 
the  children,  and  I  shall  keep  my  promise." 

Miss  Lois's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  the  effect  of  the 
loving  emotion  was  only  to  redden  the  lids,  and  make 
the  orbs  beneath  look  smaller  and  more  unbeautif  ul  than 
before. 

For  to  be  born  into  life  with  small,  inexpressive  eyes 
is  like  being  born  dumb.  One  may  have  a  heart  full  of 
feeling,  but  the  world  will  not  believe  it.  Pass  on,  then. 
Martha,  witli  your  pale  little  orbs;  leave  the  feeling  to 
Beatrice  with  her  deep  brown  glance,  to  Agnes  with  her 
pure  blue  gaze,  to  Isabel  with  hers  of  passionate  splendor. 
The  world  does  not  believe  you  have  any  especial  feelings, 
poor  Martha.  Then  do  not  have  them,  if  you  can  help 
it — and  pass  on. 

"I  have  been  thinking  deeply,"  continued  Anne, 
"and  I  have  consulted  Dr.  Gastoii.  He  says  that  I  have 
a  good  education,  but  probably  an  old-fashioned  one;  at 
least  the  fort  ladies  told  him  that  it  would  be  so  consider 
ed.  It  seems  that  what  I  need  is  a  '  polish  of  modern 
accomplishments.'  That  is  what  he  called  it.  Now,  to 
obtain  a  teacher's  place,  I  must  have  this,  and  I  can  not 
obtain  it  here."  She  paused;  and  then,  like  one  who 


112  ANNE. 

rides  forward  on  a  solitary  charge,  added,  ' '  I  am  going  to 
write  to  Miss  Vanhorn." 

"  A  dragon!"  said  Miss  Lois,  knitting  fiercely.  Then 
added,  after  a  moment,  "A  positive  demon  of  pride." 
Then,  after  another  silence,  she  said,  sternly,  "  She  broke 
your  mother's  heart,  Anne  Douglas,  and  she  will  break 
yours." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  .the  girl,  her  voice  trembling  a  little ; 
for  her  sorrow  was  still  very  near  the  surface.  "She  is 
old  now,  and  perhaps  more  gentle.  At  any  rate,  she  is 
my  only  living  relative,  and  to  her  I  must  appeal." 

' '  How  do  you  ktiow  she  is  alive  ?  The  world  would  be 
well  rid  of  such  a  kicked  fiend,"  pursued  Miss  Lois,  quot 
ing  unconsciously  frorn-Anne's  forest  Juliet. 

"She  was  living  lastTyJaiv for  father  spoke  of  her." 

"I  did  not  know  he  eveV  spoke  of  her." 

"Only  in  answer  to  m  ^questions;  for  I  had  found 
her  address,  written  in  mother*'*  handwriting,  in  an  old 
note-book.  She  brought  up  myraother,  you  know,  and 
was  once  very  fond  of  her."  v/ 

"So  fond  of  her  that  she  killed  he"r.  If  poor  Alida 
had  not  had  that  strain  upon  her,  she  might  have  been 
alive  at  this  day,"  said  Miss  Lois. 

Anne's  self-control  left  her  now,  and  she  began  to 
sob  like  a  child.  "Do  not  make  it  harder  for  me  than  it 
is, "  she  said,  amid  her  tears.  ' '  I  must  ask  her ;  and  if  she 
should  consent  to  help  me,  it  will  be  grief  enough  to 
leave  you  all,  without  these  cruel  memories  added.  She 
is  old :  who  knows  but  that  she  may  be  longing  to  repair 
the  harm  she  did  ?" 

"Can  the  leopard  change  his  spots?"  said  Miss  Lois, 
sternly.  "But  what  do  you  mean  by  leaving  us  all? 
What  do  you  intend  to  do  ?" 

' '  I  intend  to  ask  her  either  to  use  her  influence  in  ob 
taining  a  teacher's  place  for  me  immediately,  or  if  I  am 
not,  in  her  opinion,  qualified,  to  give  me  the  proper  mas 
ters  for  one  year.  I  would  study  very  hard ;  she  would 
not  be  burdened  with  me  long." 

"And  the  proper  masters  are  not  here,  of  course  ?" 
-     "No;  at  the  East." 


^  AJSNE.  113 

Miss  Lois  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  round,  took  off  her 
spectacles,  rolled  up  her  knitting- work  slowly  and  tightly 
as  though  it  was  never  to  be  unrolled  again,  and  pinned 
it  together  with  decision ;  she  was  pinning  in  also  a  vast 
resolution.  Then  she  looked  at  Anne  in  silence  for  sev 
eral  minutes,  saw  the  tear-dimmed  eyes  and  tired,  anxious 
face,  the  appealing  glance  of  William  Douglas's  child. 

"  I  have  not  one  word  to  say  against  it,"  she  remark 
ed  at  last,  breaking  the  silence  ;  and  then  she  walked 
out  of  the  house  and  went  homeward. 

It  was  a  hard  battle  for  her.  She  was  to  be  left  with 
the  four  brown-skinned  children,  fo^ftlbm  she  had  al 
ways  felt  unconquerable  aversioA/raShile  the  one  child 
whom  she  loved — Anne — was  foo,/&7rar  away.  It  was  a 
revival  of  the  bitter  old  feeli^gf  against  Angelique  Lafon- 
taine,  the  artful  minx  wh<4y[afl 'entrapped  William  Doug 
las  to  his  ruin.  In  teuth,0toowever,  there  had  been  very 
little  art  about  Angefkp!^;  rror  was  Douglas  by  any  means 
a  rich  prey.  RH£  \xP^eii  always  attribute  wonderful 
powers  of  strategptiJ  a  successful  rival,  even  although  by 
the  same  ratio  thjj  reduce  the  bridegroom  to  a  condition 
approaching  idiocy ;  for  anything  is  better  than  the  sup 
position  that  he  was  a  free  agent,  and  sought  his  fate  from 
the  love  of  it. 

The  thought  of  Anne's  going  was  dreadful  to  Miss  Lois ; 
yet  her  long-headed  New  England  thrift  and  calculation 
saw  chances  in  that  future  which  Anne  did  not  see. 
"  The  old  wretch  has  money,  and  no  near  heirs,"  she  said 
to  herself;  "why  should  she  not  take  a  fancy  to  this 
grandniece  ?  Anne  has  no  such  idea,  but  her  friends 
should,  therefore,  have  it  for  her."  Still,  the  tears  would 
rise  and  dim  her  spectacles  as  she  thought  of  the  part 
ing.  She  took  off  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  and  rubbed 
them  vigorously.  "One  thing  is  certain,"  she  added, 
to  herself,  as  a  sort  of  comfort,  ' '  Tita  will  have  to  do  her 
mummeries  in  the  garden  after  this." 

Poor  old  Lois  !  in  these  petty  annoyances  and  heavy 
cares  her  great  grief  was  to  be  pressed  down  into  a  sub 
dued  under-current,  no  longer  to  be  indulged  or  made 
much  of  even  bv  herself. 


114  ANNE. 

Anne  knew  but  little  of  her  grandaunt.  William 
Douglas  would  not  speak  of  what  was  the  most  bitter 
memory  of  his  life.  The  address  in  the  old  note-book, 
in  her  mother's  unformed  girlish  handwriting,  was  her 
only  guide.  She  knew  that  Miss  Vanhorn  was  obstinate 
and  ill-tempered;  she  knew  that  she  had  discarded  her 
mother  on  account  of  her  disobedient  marriage,  and  had 
remained  harsh  and  unforgiving  to  the  last.  And  this 
was  all  she  knew.  But  she  had  no  choice.  Hoping, 
praying  for  the  best,  she  wrote  her  letter,  and  sent  it  on 
its  way.  Then  they  all  waited.  For  Pere  Michaux  had 
been  taken  into  the  conference  also,  and  had  given  hearty 
approval  to  Anne's  idea — so  hearty,  indeed,  that  both  the, 
chaplain  and  Miss  Lois  looked  upon  him  with  disfavor. 
What  did  he  mean  ?  He  did  not  say  what  he  meant,  but 
returned  to  his  hermitage  cheerfully.  Dr.  Gaston,  not 
so  cheerfully,  brought  out  his  hardest  chess  problems, 
and  tried  to  pass  away  the  time  in  mathematical  com 
binations  of  the  deepest  kind.  Hiss  Lois,  however,  had 
combinations  at  hand  of  another  sort.  No  sooner  was 
the  letter  gone  than  she  advanced  a  series  of  conjectures 
which  did  honor  even  to  her  New  England  origin. 

The  first  was  that  Miss  Vanhorn  had  gone  abroad: 
those  old  New-Yorkers  were  "  capable  of  wishing  to  ride 
on  camels,  even";  she  added,  from  habit,  "through  the 
eye  of  a  needle."  The  next  day  she  decided  that  paral 
ysis  would  be  the  trouble :  those  old  New-Yorkers  were 
' '  often  stricken  down  in  that  way,  owing  to  their  high 
living  and  desperate  wine-bibbing."  Anne  need  give 
no  more  thought  to  her  letter;  Miss  Vanhorn  would 
not  be  able  even  to  read  it.  The  third  day,  Miss  Van- 
horn  would  read  the  letter,  but  would  immediately  throw 
it  on  the  floor  and  stamp  on  it:  those  old  New-Yorkers 
4 'had  terrible  tempers,"  and  were  "known  to  swear  like 
troopers  even  on  the  slightest  provocation."  The  fourth 
day,  Miss  Vanhorn  was  mad ;  the  fifth  day,  she  was  mar 
ried;  the  sixth,  she  was  dead:  those  old  New-Yorkers 
having  tendencies  toward  insanity,  matrimony,  and 
death  which,  Miss  Lois  averred,  were  known  to  all  the 
world,  and  indisputable.  That  she  herself  had  neve* 


ANNE. 


115 


been  in  New  York  in  her  life  made  no  difference  in  her 
certainties :  women  like  Miss  Lois  are  always  sure  they 
know  all  about  New  York. 

Anne,  weary  and  anxious,  and  forced  to  hear  all  these 
probabilities,  began  at  last  to  picture  her  grandaunt  as 
a  sort  of  human  kaleidoscope,  falling  into  new  and  more 
fantastic  combinations  at  a  moment's  notice. 

They  had  allowed  two  weeks  for  the  letter  to  reach 
the  island,  always  supposing  that  Miss  Vanhorn  was  not 
on  a  camel,  paralyzed,  obstinate,  mad,  married,  or  dead. 
But  on  the  tenth  day  the  letter  came.  Anne  took  it 
with  a  hand  that  trembled.  Dr.  Gaston  was  present, 
and  Miss  Lois,  but  neither  of  them  comprehended  her 
feelings.  She  felt  that  she  was  now  to  be  confronted 
by  an  assent  which  would  strain  her  heart-strings  al 
most  to  snapping,  yet  be  ultimately  for  the  best,  or  by 
a  refusal  which  would  fill  her  poor  heart  with  joy,  al 
though  at  the  same  time  pressing  down  upon  her. shoul 
ders  a  heavy,  almost  hopeless,  weight  of  care.  The  two 
could  not  enter  into  her  feelings,  because  in  the  depths 
of  their  hearts  they  both  resented  her  willingness  to  leave 
them.  They  never  said  this  to  each  other,  they  never 
said  it  to  themselves ;  yet  they  both  felt  it  with  the  un 
conscious  selfishness  of  those  who  are  growing  old,  espe 
cially  when  their  world  is  narrowed  down  to  one  or  two 
loving  young  hearts.  They  did  not  realize  that  it  was 
as  hard  for  her  to  go  as  it  was  for  them  to  let  her  go ; 
they  did  not  realize  what  a  supreme  effort  of  courage 
it  required  to  make  this  young  girl  go  out  alone  into 
the  wide  world,  and  face  its  vastness  and  its  strange 
ness  ;  they  did  not  realize  how  she  loved  them,  and  how 
every  tree,  every  rock  of  the  island,  also,  was  dear  to 
her  strongly  loving,  concentrated  heart. 

After  her  father's  death  Anne  had  been  for  a  time  pas 
sive,  swept  away  by  grief  as  a  dead  leaf  on  the  wind. 
But  cold  necessity  came  and  stood  by  her  bedside  silent 
ly  and  stonily,  and  looked  at  her  until,  recalling  her 
promise,  she  rose,  choked  back  her  sorrow,  and  returned 
to  common  life  and  duty  with  an  aching  but  resolute 
heart.  In  the  effort  she  made  to  speak  at  all  it  was  no 


116  ANNE. 

wonder  that  she  spoke  quietly,  almost  coldly;  having, 
after  sleepless  nights  of  sorrow,  nerved  herself  to  bear 
the  great  change  in  her  lot,  should  it  come  to  her,  could 
she  trust  herself  to  say  that  she  was  sorry  to  go  ?  Sor 
ry  ! — when  her  whole  heart  was  one  pain ! 
The  letter  was  as  follows : 

"GRANDNIECE  ANNE,— I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
in  existence.  I  have  read  your  letter,  and  have  now  to 
say  the  following.  Your  mother  willfully  disobeyed  me, 
and  died.  I,  meanwhile,  an  old  woman,  remain  as  strong 
as  ever. 

"  While  I  recognize  no  legal  claim  upon  me  (I  having 
long  since  attended  to  the  future  disposal  of  all  my  prop 
erty  according  to  my  own  wishes),  I  am  willing  to  help 
you  to  a  certain  extent,  as  I  would  help  any  industrious 
young  girl  asking  for  assistance.  If  what  you  say  of 
your  education  is  true,  you  need  only  what  are  called 
modern  accomplishments  (of  which  I  personally  have 
small  opinion,  a  grimacing  in  French  and  a  squalling  in 
Italian  being  not  to  my  taste)  to  make  you  a  fairly  well 
qualified  teacher  in  an  average  country  boarding-school, 
which  is  all  you  can  expect.  You  may,  therefore,  come 
to  New  York  at  my  expense,  and  enter  Madame  Moreau's 
establishment,  where,  as  I  understand,  the  extreme  of 
everything  called  '  accomplishment'  is  taught,  and  much 
nonsense  learned  in  the  latest  style.  You  may  remain 
one  year ;  not  longer.  And  I  advise  you  to  improve  the 
time,  as  nothing  more  will  be  done  for  you  by  me.  You 
will  bring  your  own  clothes,  but  I  will  pay  for  your 
books.  I  send  no  money  now,  but  will  refund  your 
travelling  expenses  (of  which  you  will  keep  strict  ac 
count,  without  extras)  upon  your  arrival  in  the  city,  which 
must  not  be  later  than  the  last  of  October.  Go  directly 
to  Madame  Moreau's  (the  address  is  inclosed),  and  re 
member  that  you  are  simply  Anne  Douglas,  and  not  a 
relative  of  your  obedient  servant, 

.     KATHARINE  VANHORN." 

Anne,  who  had  read  the  letter  aloud  hi  a  low  voice, 


ANNE.  117 

now  laid  it   down,  and  looked  palely  at  her   two  old 
friends. 

"A  hard  letter,"  said  the  chaplain,  indignantly. 
"My  child,  remain  with  us.  We  will  think  of  some 
other  plan  for  you.  Let  the  proud,  cold-hearted  old  wo 
man  go." 

"I  told  you  how  it  would  be,"  said  Miss  Lois,  a  bright 
spot  of  red  on  each  cheek-bone.  ' '  She  was  cruel  to  your 
mother  before  you,  and  she  will  be  cruel  to  you.  You 
must  give  it  up." 

"No,"  said  Anne,  slowly,  raising  the  letter  and  repla 
cing  it  in  its  envelope ;  "  it  is  a  matter  in  which  I  have  no 
choice.  She  gives  me  the  year  at  school,  as  you  see,  and — 
there  are  the  children.  I  promised  father,  and  I  must 
keep  the  promise.  Do  not  make  me  falter,  dear  friends, 
for — I  must  go."  And  unable  longer  to  keep  back  the 
tears,  she  hurriedly  left  the  room. 

Dr.  Gastoii,  without  a  word,  took  his  old  felt  hat  and 
went  home.  Miss  Lois  sat  staring  vaguely  at  the  win 
dow-pane,  until  she  became  conscious  that  some  one  was 
coming  up  the  path,  and  that  "  some  one"  Pere  Michaux. 
She  too  then  went  hurriedly  homeward,  by  the  back  way, . 
in  order  to  avoid  him.  The  old  priest,  coming  in,  found 
the  house  deserted.  Anne  was  on  her  knees  in  her  own 
room,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break ;  but  the  walls 
were  thick,  and  he  could  not  hear  her. 

Then  Tita  came  in.  ' '  Annet  is  going  away,"  she  said, 
softly ;  ' '  she  is  going  to  school.  The  letter  came  to-day. " 

' '  So  Miss  Vanhorn  consents,  does  she  ?  Excellent  I  ex 
cellent!"  said  Pere  Michaux,  rubbing  his  hands,  his  eyes 
expressing  a  hearty  satisfaction. 

"When  will  you  say  'Excellent!  excellent!'  about 
me  ?"  said  Tita,  jealously. 

"Before  long,  I  hope,"  said  the  priest,  patting  her 
small  head. 

"  But  are  you  sure,  mon  pere  ?" 

' '  Well,  yes, "  said  Pere  Michaux,  ' '  on  the  whole,  I  am. " 

He  smiled,  and  the  child  smiled  also ;  but  with  a  deep 
quiet  triumph  remarkable  in  one  so  young. 


118  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

**  To  all  appearance  it  was  chiefly  by  Accident,  and  the  grace  of 
Nature." — CARLYLE. 

IT  was  still  September ;  for  great  sorrows  come,  graves 
are  made  and  turfed  over,  and  yet  the  month  is  not  out. 
Anne  had  written  her  letter  immediately,  accepting  her 
grandaunt's  offer,  and  Pere  Michaux  gave  her  approval 
and  praise;  but  the  others  did  not,  could  not,  and  she 
suffered  from  their  silence.  It  made,  however,  no  change 
in  her  purpose ;  she  went  about  her  tasks  steadily,  toiling 
all  day  over  the  children's  clothes,  for  she  had  used  part 
of  the  money  in  her  hands  to  make  them  comfortable, 
and  part  was  to  be  given  to  Miss  Lois.  Her  own  gar 
ments  troubled  her  little ;  two  strong,  plain  black  gowns 
she  considered  amply  sufficient.  Into  the  midst  of  all 
this  swift  sewing  suddenly  one  day  came  East. 

"  Why  did  I  do  it?"  he  said,  in  answer  to  everybody. 
u  Do  you  suppose  I  was  going  to  let  Annet  go  away  for 
a  whole  long  year  without  saying  even  good-by  ?  Of 
course  not." 

"It  is  very  kind,"  said  Anne,  her  tired  eyes  resting 
on  his  handsome  face  gratefully,  her  sewing  for  the  mo 
ment  cast  aside.  Her  friends  had  not  been  overkind  to 
her  lately,  and  she  was  deeply  touched  by  this  proof  of 
attachment  from  her  old  playmate  and  companion.  Hast 
expressed  his  affection,  as  usual,  in  his  own  way.  He  did 
not  say  that  he  had  come  back  to  the  island  because  he 
wished  to  see  her,  but  because  he  knew  that  she  wished  to 
see  him.  And  Anne  willingly  agreed.  Dr.  Gaston,  as 
guardian  of  this  runaway  collegian,  gave  him  a  long 
lecture  on  his  escapade  and  its  consequences,  his  interrupt 
ed  studies,  a  long  train  of  disasters  to  follow  being  pic 
tured  with  stern  distinctness.  East  listened  to  the  ser 
mon,  or  rather  sat  through  it,  without  impatience :  he  had 
a  fine  sunny  temper,  and  few  things  troubled  him.  He 


ANNE.  119 

seldom  gave  any  attention  to  subtleties  of  meaning,  or 
under-currents,  but  took  the  surface  impression,  and  an 
swered  it  promptly,  often  putting  to  rout  by  his  direct 
ness  trains  of  reasoning  much  deeper  than  his  own.  So 
now  all  he  said  was,  i '  I  could  not  help  coming^  sir,  be 
cause  Annet  is  going  away;  I  wanted  to  see  her."  And 
the  old  man  was  silenced  in  spite  of  himself. 

As  he  was  there,  and  it  could  not  be  helped,  East, 
by  common  consent  of  the  island,  was  allowed  to  spend 
several  days  unmolested  among  his  old  haunts.  Then 
they  all  began  to  grow  restive,  to  ask  questions,  and 
to  speak  of  the  different  boats.  For  the  public  of  small 
villages  has  always  a  singular  impatience  as  to  anything 
like  uncertainty  in  the  date  of  departure  of  its  guests. 
Many  a  miniature  community  has  been  stirred  into  heat 
because  it  could  not  find  out  the  day  and  hour  when  Mrs. 
Blank  would  terminate  her  visit  at  her  friend's  mansion, 
and  with  her  trunk  and  bag  depart  on  her  way  to  the 
railway  station ;  and  this  not  because  the  community  has 
any  objection  to  Mrs.  Blank,  or  any  wish  to  have  her 
depart,  but  simply  because  if  she  is  going,  they  wish  to 
know  when,  and  have  it  settled.  The  few  days  over, 
Hast  himself  was  not  unwilling  to  go.  He  had  seen 
Anne,  and  Anne  was  pressed  with  work,  and  so  con 
stantly  threatened  by  grief  that  she  had  to  hold  it  down 
with  an  iron  effort  at  almost  every  moment.  If  she  kept 
her  eyes  free  from  tears  and  her  voice  steady,  she  did  all 
she  could;  she  had  no  idea  that  Bast  expected  more. 
Rast  meanwhile  had  learned  clearly  that  he  was  a  re 
markably  handsome,  brilliant  young  fellow,  and  that  the 
whole  world  was  before  him  where  to  choose.  He  was 
fond  of  Anne;  the  best  feelings  of  his  nature  and  the  as 
sociations  of  his  whole  boyhood's  life  were  twined  round 
her ;  and  yet  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  always  been 
very  kind  to  her,  and  this  coming  back  to  the  island  on 
purpose  to  see  her — that  was  remarkably  kind.  He  was 
glad  to  do  it,  of  course ;  but  she  must  appreciate  it.  He 
began  now  to  feel  that  as  he  had  seen  her,  and  as  he 
could  not  in  any  case  stay  until  she  went,  he  might  as 
well  go>  He  yielded?  therefore,  to  the  first  suggestion  of 


120  ANNE. 

the  higher  powers,  saying-,  however,  frankly,  and  with 
real  feeling,  that  it  was  hard  to  bid  farewell  for  so  long  a 
time  to  his  old  playmate,  and  that  he  did  not  know  how 
he  could  endure  the  separation.  .  As  the  last  words  were 
spoken  it  was  Rast  who  had  tear -dimmed  eyes;  it  was 
East's  voice  that  faltered.  Anne  was  calm,  and  her  calm 
ness  annoyed  him.  He  would  have  liked  a  more  demon 
strative  sorrow.  But  as  he  went  down  the  long  path  011 
his  way  to  the  pier  where  the  steamboat  was  waiting,  the 
first  whistle  having  already  sounded,  he  forgot  every 
thing  save  his  affection  for  her  and  the  loneliness  in 
store  for  him  after  her  departure.  While  she  was  011 
their  island  she  seemed  near,  but  New  York  was  another 
world. 

Down  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  gate  there  was  an 
ancient  little  cherry-tree,  low  and  gnarled,  which  thrust 
one  crooked  arm  across  the  path  above  the  heads  of  the 
passers-by.  As  Rast  approached  he  saw  in  the  dusky 
twilight  a  small  figure  perched  upon  this  bough,  and  rec 
ognized  Tita. 

"Is  that  you,  child  ?"  he  said,  pausing  and  looking  up. 
She  answered  by  dropping  into  his  ar"ms  like  a  kitten,  and 
clinging  to  him  mutely,  with  her  face  hidden  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  What  an  affectionate  little  creature  she  is,  after  all !" 
he  thought,  stroking  her  dark  hair.  Then,  after  saying 
good -by,  and  giving  her  a  kiss,  he  disengaged  himself 
without  much  ceremony,  and  telling  her  to  be  a  good  girl 
and  mind  Miss  Lois  during  the  winter,  he  hurried  down  to 
the  pier,  the  second  whistle  summoning  all  loiterers  on 
board  with  shrill  harshness.  Tita,  left  alone,  looked  at 
her  a^ms,  reddened  by  the  force  with  which  she  had  re 
sisted  his  efforts  to  unclasp  them.  They  had  been  press 
ed  so  closely  against  the  rough  woollen  cloth  of  his  coat 
that  the  brown  flesh  showed  the  mark  of  the  diagonal 
pattern. 

"It  is  a  hurt,"  she  said,  passionately — "it  is  a  hurt." 
Her  eyes  flashed,  and  she  shook  her  small  fist  at  the  re 
treating  figure.  Then,  as  the  whistle  sounded  a  third 
time,  she  climbed  quickly  to  the  top  of  the  great  gates,  and 


SHE   SAT  THERE   HIGH   IN   THE    AIR   WHILE   THE   STEAMER   BACKED   OUT 
FROM  THE  PIERS." 


ANNE.  121 

sat  there  high  in  the  air  while  the  steamer  backed  out 
from  the  piers,  turned  round,  and  started  westward 
through  the  Straits,  nothing  now  save  a  moving  line  of 
lights,  the  short  Northern  twilight  having  faded  into 
night. 

When  the  long  sad  day  of  parting  was  at  last  over,  and 
everything  done  that  her  hands  could  find  to  do  in  that 
amount  of  time,  Anne,  in  her  own  room  alone,  let  her 
feelings  come  forth ;  she  was  the  only  watcher  in  the  old 
house,  every  other  eye  was  closed  in  sleep.  These  mo 
ments  alone  at  night,  when  she  allowed  herself  to  weep 
and  think,  were  like  breathing  times ;  then  her  sorrows 
came  forth.  According  to  her  nature,  she  did  not  fear  or 
brood  upon  her  own  future  so  much  as  upon  the  future 
of  the  children ;  the  love  in  her  heart  made  it  seem-  to 
her  a  bitter  fate  to  be  forced  to  leave  them  and  the  isl 
and.  The  prospect  of  the  long  journey,  the  city  school, 
the  harsh  aunt,  did  not  dishearten  her;  they  were  but 
parts  of  her  duty,  the  duty  of  her  life.  .  It  was  after  mid 
night  ;  still  she  sat  there.  The  old  shutters,  which  had 
been  rattling  for  some  time,  broke  their  fastenings,  and 
came  violently  against  the  panes  with  a  sound  like  the 
report  of  a  pistol. 

"The  wind  is  rising,"  she  thought,  vaguely,  as  she 
rose  to  fasten  them,  opening  one  of  the  windows  for  the 
purpose.  In  rushed  the  blast,  blowing  out  the  candle, 
driving  books  and  papers  across  the  floor,  and  whirling 
the  girl's  long  loosened  hair  over  her  face  and  round 
her  arms  like  the  coils  of  a  boa-constrictor.  Blinded, 
breathless,  she  hastily  let  down  the  sash  again,  and  peer 
ed  through  the  small  wrinkled  panes.  A  few  stars  were 
visible  between  the  light  clouds  which  drove  rapidly 
from  north  to  south  in  long  regular  lines  like  bars,  giving 
a  singular  appearance  to  the  sky,  which  the  girl  recog 
nized  at  once,  and  in  the  recognition  came  back  to  pres 
ent  life.  "The  equinoctial,"  she  said  to  herself;  "and 
one  of  the  worst.  Where  can  the  Huron  be  ?  Has  she 
had  time  to  reach  the  shelter  of  the  islands  ?" 

The  Huron  was  the  steamer  which  had  carried  East 
away  at  twilight.  She  was  a  good  boat  and  stanch.  But 


122  ANNE. 

Anne  knew  that  craft  as  stanch  had  been  wrecked  and 
driven  ashore  during  these  fierce  autumn  gales  which 
sweep  over  the  chain  of  lakes  suddenly,  and  strew  their 
coasts  with  fragments  of  vessels,  and  steamers  also,  from 
the  head  of  Superior  to  the  foot  of  Ontario.  If  there  was 
more  sea-room,  vessels  might  escape ;  if  there  were  better 
harbors,  steamers  might  seek  port;  in  a  gale,  an  ocean 
captain  has  twenty  chances  for  his  vessel  where  the  lake 
captain  has  one.  Anne  stood  with  her  face  pressed 
against  the  window  for  a  long  time ;  the  force  of  the  wind 
increased.  She  took  her  candle  and  went  across  to  a  side 
room  whose  windows  commanded  the  western  pass :  she 
hoped  that  she  might  see  the  lights  of  the  steamer  coming 
back,  seeking  the  shelter  of  the  island  before  the  worst 
came.  But  all  was  dark.  She  returned  to  her  room,  and 
tried  to  sleep,  but  could  not.  Dawn  found  her  at  the 
window,  wakeful  and  anxious.  There  was  to  be  no  sun. 
that  day,  only  a  yellow  white  light.  She  knelt  down  and 
prayed ;  then  she. rose,  and  braided  anew  her  thick  brown 
hair.  When  she  entered  the  sitting-room  the  vivid  rose 
freshness  which  always  came  to  her  in  the  early  morning 
was  only  slightly  paled  by  her  vigil,  and  her  face  seem 
ed  as  usual  to  the  boys,  who  were  waiting  for  her.  Be 
fore  breakfast  was  ready,  Miss  Lois  arrived,  tightly 
swathed  in  a  shawl  and  veils,  and  carrying  a  large  basket. 

"There  is  fresh  gingerbread  in  there,"  she  said;  "I 
thought  the  boys  might  like  some ;  and — it  will  be  an  ex 
cellent  day  to  finish  those  jackets,  Anne.  No  danger  of 
interruption. " 

She  did  not  mention  the  gale  or  Hast;  neither  did 
Anne.  They  sat  down  to  breakfast  with  the  boys,  and 
talked  about  thread  and  buttons.  But,  while  they  were 
eating,  Louis  exclaimed,  "Why,  there's  Dr.  Gaston  !" 
and  looking  up,  they  saw  the  chaplain  struggling  to  keep 
his  hat  in  place  as  he  came  up  the  path  sideways,  fight 
ing  the  wind. 

' '  He  should  just  have  wrapped  himself  up,  and  scudded 
before  it  as  I  did,"  said  Miss  Lois. 

Anne  ran  to  open  the  door,  and  the  old  clergyman 
came  panting  in. 


ANNE.  123 

"  It  is  such  a  miserable  day  that  I  thought  you  would 
like  to  have  that  dictionary,  dear;  so  I  brought  it  down 
to  you,"  he  said,  laying  the  heavy  volume  on  the  table. 

"  Thanks.     Have  you  had  breakfast  ?"  said  Anne. 

' '  Well,  no.  I  thought  I  would  come  without  waiting 
for  it  this  morning,  in  order  that  you  might  have  the 
book,  you  know.  What !  you  here,  Miss  Lois  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  came  to  help  Anne.  We  are  going  to 
have  a  good  long  day  at  these  jackets,"  replied  Miss  Lois, 
briskly. 

They  all  sat  down  at  the  table  again,  and  Gabriel  was 
going  to  the  kitchen  for  hot  potatoes,  when  he  spied  an 
other  figure  struggling  through  the  gate  and  driving  up 
the  long  path.  "Pere  Michaux!"  he  cried,  running  to 
open  the  door. 

In  another  moment  the  priest  had  entered,  and  was 
greeting  them  cheerfully.  "As  I  staid  in  town  over 
night,  I  thought,  Anne,  that  I  would  come  up  and  look 
over  those  books.  It  is  a  good  day  for  it ;  there  will  be 
no  interruption.  I  think  I  shall  find  a  number  of  vol 
umes  which  I  may  wish  to  purchase." 

"It  is  very  kind ;  I  shall  like  to  think  of  my  dear  fa 
ther's  books  in  your  hands.  But  have  you  breakfasted  ?" 

No,  the  priest  acknowledged  that  he  had  not.  In  truth, 
he  was  not  hungry  when  he  rose ;  but  now  that  he  saw 
the  table  spread,  he  thought  he  might  eat  something  aft 
er  all. 

So  they  sat  down  again,  and  Louis  went  out  to  help 
Gabriel  bring  in  more  coffee,  potatoes,  and  eggs.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  noise  with  the  plates,  a  good  deal  of 
passing  to  and  fro  the  milk,  cream,  butter,  and  salt;  a 
good  deal  of  talking  on  rather  a  high  key ;  a  great  many 
questions  and  answers  whose  irrelevancy  nobody  noticed. 
Dr.  Gaston  told  a  long  story,  and  forgot  the  point;  but 
Miss  Lois  laughed  as  heartily  as  though  it  had  been  acute 
ly  present.  Pere  Michaux  then  brought  up  the  vener 
able  subject  of  the  lost  grave  of  Father  Marquette ;  and 
the  others  entered  into  it  with  the  enthusiasm  of  resur 
rectionists,  and  as  though  they  had  never  heard  of  it  be 
fore.  Miss  Lois  and  Dr.  Gaston  even  seeming  to  be  pitted 


124  A1STNE. 

against  each  other  in  the  amount  of  interest  they  showed 
concerning'  the  dead  Jesuit.  Anne  said  little ;  in  truth, 
there  was  no  space  left  for  her,  the  others  keeping  up  so 
brisk  a  fire  of  phrases.  It  was  not  until  Tita,  coming 
into  the  room,  remarked,  as  she  warmed  her  hands,  that 
breakfast  was  unusually  early,  that  any  stop  was  made, 
and  then  all  the  talkers  fell  upon  her  directly,  in  lieu  of 
Father  Marquette.  Miss  Lois  could  not  imagine  what 
she  meant.  It  was  sad,  indeed,  to  see  such  laziness  in  so 
young  a  child.  Before  long  she  would  be  asking  for 
breakfast  in  bed!  Dr.  Gaston  scouted  the  idea  that  it 
was  early;  he  had  often  been  down  in  the  village  an 
hour  earlier.  It  was  a  fine  bracing  morning  for  a  walk. 

All  this  time  the  high  ceaseless  whistle  of  the  wind, 
the  roar  of  the  water  on  the  beach,  the  banging  to  and  fro 
of  the  shutters  here  and  there  on  the  wide  rambling  old 
mansion,  the  creaking  of  the  near  trees  that  brushed  its 
sides,  and  the  hundred  other  noises  of  the  gale,  made  the 
room  seem  strange  and  uncomfortable;  every  now  and 
then  the  solid  old  frame-work  vibrated  as  a  new  blast 
struck  it,  and  through  the  floor  and  patched  carpet  puffs 
of  cold  air  came  up  into  the  room  and  swept  over  their 
feet.  All  their  voices  were  pitched  high  to  overcome 
these  sounds. 

Tita  listened  to  the  remarks  addressed  to  her,  noted 
the  pretense  of  bustle  and  hearty  appetite,  and  then,  turn 
ing  to  the  window,  she  said,  during  a  momentary  lull  in 
the  storm,  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  can  not  eat,  when 
poor  East  is  somewhere  on  that  black  water." 

Dr.  Gaston  pushed  away  his  plate,  Miss  Lois  sat  staring 
at  the  wall  with  her  lips  tightly  compressed,  while  Anne 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  to  keep  back  the  tears« 
Pere  Michaux  rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room ;  for  a  moment,  besides  his  step,  there  was  no  sound 
save  the  roar  of  the  storm.  Tita's  words  had  ended  all 
pretense,  clothed  their  fear  in  language,  and  set  it  up  in 
their  midst.  From  that  moment,  through  the  long  day, 
there  was  no  more  disguise ;  every  cloud,  every  great  wave, 
was  watched,  every  fresh  fierce  blast  swept  through  four 
anxious  hearts.  They  were  very  silent  now,  and  as  the 


ANNE.  125 

storm  grew  wilder,  even  the  boys  became  awed,  and  curl 
ed  themselves  together  on  the  broad  window-seat,  speak 
ing  in  whispers.  At  noon  a  vessel  drove  by  under  bare 
poles;  she  seemed  to  be  unmanageable,  and  they  could 
see  the  signals  of  the  sailors  as  they  passed  the  island. 
But  there  was  no  life-boat,  and  nothing  else  could  live  in 
that  sea.  At  two  o'clock  a  large  bark  came  into  view, 
and  ran  ashore  on  the  reef  opposite ;  there  she  lay,  pound 
ing  to  pieces  for  two  hours.  They  saw  the  crew  try  to 
launch  the  boats;  one  was  broken  into  fragments  in  a 
moment,  then  another.  The  third  and  last  floated,  filled 
with  humanity,  and  in  two  minutes  she  also  was  swamp 
ed,  and  dark  objects  that  they  knew  were  men  were  suck 
ed  under.  Then  the  hull  of  a  schooner,  with  one  mast 
standing,  drove  aimlessly  by,  so  near  the  shore  that  with 
the  glass  they  could  see  the  features  of  the  sailors  lashed 
to  the  pole. 

"  Oh !  if  we  could  but  save  them !"  said  Anne.  ' '  How 
near  they  are !"  But  even  as  she  spoke  the  mast  fell,  and 
they  saw  the  poor  fellows  drown  before  their  eyes. 

At  four  the  Huron  came  into  sight  from  the  western 
pass,  laboring  heavily,  fighting  her  way  along  inch  by 
inch,  but  advancing.  ' '  Thanks  be  to  the  Lord  for  this !" 
said  the  chaplain,  fervently.  Pere  Michaux  took  off  his 
velvet  cap,  and  reverently  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"'Twouldn't  be  any  harm  to  sing  a  hymn,  I  guess," 
said  Miss  Lois,  wiping  her  eyes.  Then  Anne  sang  the 
"  De  Profimdis."  Amid  the  storm  all  the  voices  rose  to 
gether,  the  children  and  Miss  Lois  and  the  two  priests 
joining  in  the  old  psalm  of  King  David,  which  belongs 
to  all  alike,  Romanist  and  Protestant,  Jew  and  Christian, 
bond  and  free. 

"  I  do  feel  better, "  said  Miss  Lois.  ' '  But  the  steamer  is 
still  far  off." 

"The  danger  will  be  when  she  attempts  to  turn,"  said 
Pere  Michaux. 

They  all  stood  at  the  windows  watching  the  boat  as  she 
rolled  and  pitched  in  the  heavy  sea,  seeming  half  the  time 
to  make  no  headway  at  all,  but  on  the  contrary  to  be 
beaten  back,  yet  doggedly  persisting.  At  five  o'clock 


126  AJS^E, 

she  had  reached  the  point  where  she  must  turn  and  run 
the  gauntlet  in  order  to  enter  port,  with  the  gale  striking 
full  upon  her  side.  Every  front  window  in  the  village 
now  held  gazing  faces,  and  along  the  piers  men  were 
clustered  under  the  lee  of  the  warehouses  with  ropes  and 
hooks,  waiting  to  see  what  they  could  do.  The  steamer 
seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment,  and  was  driven  back. 
Then  she  turned  sharply  and  started  in  toward  the  piers 
with  all  steam  on.  The  watchers  at  the  Agency  held 
their  breath.  For  a  moment  or  two  she  advanced  rap 
idly,  then  the  wind  struck  her,  and  she  careened  until 
her  smoke-stacks  seemed  almost  to  touch  the  water.  The 
boys  cried  out;  Miss  Lois  clasped  her  hands.  But  the 
boat  had  righted  herself  again  by  changing  her  course, 
and  was  now  drifting  back  to  her  old  station.  Again 
and  again  she  made  the  attempt,  now  coming  slowly,  now 
with  all  the  sudden  speed  she  could  muster ;  but  she  nev 
er  advanced  far  before  the  lurch  came,  throwing  her  on 
her  side,  with  one  paddle-wheel  in  the  air,  and  straining 
every  timber  in  her  frame.  After  half  an  hour  of  this 
work  she  drew  off,  and  began  to  ply  slowly  up  and  down 
under  the  partial  shelter  of  the  little  island  opposite,  as 
if  resting.  But  there  was  not  a  place  where  she  could 
cast  anchor,  nor  any  safety  in  flight ;  the  gale  would  out 
last  the  night,  and  the  village  harbor  was  her  best  hope. 
The  wind  was  increasing,  the  afternoon  sinking  into 
night;  every  one  on  the  island  and  on  board  also  knew 
that  when  darkness  fell,  the  danger,  already  great,  would 
be  trebled.  Menacing  and  near  on  every  side  were  long 
low  shore-lines,  which  looked  harmless  enough,  yet  held 
in  their  sands  the  bones  of  many  a  drowned  man,  the 
ribs  of  many  a  vessel. 

"Why  doesn't  she  make  another  trial  ?"  said  Dr.  Gas- 
ton,  feverishly  wiping  his  eyeglasses.  ' '  There  is  no  use 
in  running  up  and  down  under  that  island  any  longer." 

"The  captain  is  probably  making  everything  ready 
for  a  final  attempt,"  answered  Pere  Michaux. 

And  so  it  seemed,  for,  after  a  few  more  minutes  had 
passed,  the  steamer  left  her  shelter,  and  proceeded  cau 
tiously  down  to  the  end  of  the  little  island,  keeping  as 


ANNE.  127 

closely  in  shore  as  she  could,  climbing1  each  wave  with  her 
bows,  and  then  pitching  down  into  the  depth  on  the  oth 
er  side,  until  it  seemed  as  if  her  hind-quarters  must  be 
broken  off,  being  too  long  to  fit  into  the  watery  hollows 
under  her.  Having  reached  the  end  of  the  islet,  she 
paused,  and  slowly  turned. 

"Now  for  it,"  said  Pere  Michaux. 

It  was  sunset-time  in  pleasant  parts  of  the  land ;  here 
the  raw,  cold,  yellow  light,  which  had  not  varied  since 
early  morning,  giving  a  peculiar  distinctness  to  all  ob 
jects  near  or  far,  grew  more  clear  for  a  few  moments — 
the  effect,  perhaps,  of  the  after-glow  behind  the  clouds 
which  had  covered  the  sky  all  day  unmoved,  fitting  as 
closely  as  the  cover  upon  a  dish.  As  the  steamer  start- 
ed  out  into  the  channel,  those  on  shore  could  see  that 
the  passengers  were  gathered  on  the  deck  as  if  prepared 
for  the  worst.  They  were  all  there,  even  the  children. 
But  now  no  one  thought  any  more,  only  watched;  no 
one  spoke,  only  breathed.  The  steamer  was  full  in  the 
gale,  and  on  her  side.  Yet  she  kept  along,  righting  her 
self  a  little  now  and  then,  and  then  careening  anew.  It 
seemed  as  though  she  would  not  be  able  to  make  head 
way  with  her  one  wheel,  but  she  did.  Then  the  island 
ers  began  to  fear  that  she  would  be  driven  by  too  far  out ; 
but  the  captain  had  allowed  for  that.  In  a  few  seconds 
more  it  became  evident  that  she  would  just  brush  the  end 
of  the  longest  pier,  with  nothing  to  spare.  Then  the 
men  on  shore  ran  down,  the  wind  almost  taking  them 
off  their  feet,  with  ropes,  chains,  grappling-irons,  and 
whatever  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  The  steamer, 
now  unmanageable,  was  drifting  rapidly  toward  them  on 
her  side,  the  passengers  clinging  to  her  hurricane-deck 
and  to  the  railings.  A  great  wave  washed  over  her 
when  not  twenty  feet  from  the  pier,  bearing  off  several 
persons,  who  struggled  in  the  water  a  moment,  and  then 
disappeared.  Anne  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands, 
and  prayed  that  Hast  might  not  be  among  these.  When 
she  looked  again,  the  boat  was  fastened  by  two,  by  ten, 
by  twenty,  ropes  and  chains  to  the  end  of  the  pier,  bows 
on,  and  pulling  at  her  halters  like  an  unmanageable 


128 

steed,  while  women  were  throwing  their  children  into 
the  arms  of  those  below,  and  men  were  jumping  madly 
over,  at  the  risk  of  breaking  their  ankle-bones.  Any 
thing  to  be  on  the  blessed  shore!  In  three  minutes 
a  hundred  persons  were  on  the  pier,  and  Rast  among 
them.  Anne,  Dr.  Gaston,  Pere  Michaux,  Miss  Lois,  and 
the  children  all  recognized  his  figure  instantly,  and  the 
two  old  men  started  down  through  the  storm  to  meet  him, 
in  their  excitement  running  along  like  school-boys, 
hand  in  hand. 

Rast  was  safe.  They  brought  him  home  to  the  Agency 
in  triumph,  and  placed  him  in  a  chair  before  the  fire. 
They  all  wanted  to  touch  him,  in  order  to  feel  that  he  was 
really  there,  to  be  glad  over  him,  to  make  much  of  him ; 
they  all  talked  together.  Anne  came  to  his  side  with 
tender  affection.  He  was  pale  and  moved.  Instinctive 
ly  and  naturally  as  a  chi]d  turns  to  its  mother  he  turned 
to  her,  and,  before  them  all,  laid  his  head  down  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  clung  to  her  without  speaking.  The  eld 
ers  drew  away  a  little;  the  boys  stopped  their  clamor. 
Only  Tita  kept  her  place  by  the  youth's  side,  and  frown 
ed  darkly  011  the  others. 

Then  they  broke  into  a  group  again.  Rast  recovered 
himself,  Dr.  Gaston  began  to  make  puns,  and  Pere  Mi 
chaux  and  Miss  Lois  revived  the  subject  of  Father  Mar- 
quette  as  a  safe  ladder  by  which  they  could  all  come  down 
to  common  life  again.  A  visit  to  the  kitchen  was  made, 
and  a  grand  repast,  dinner  and  supper  combined,  was  pro 
posed  and  carried  into  effect  by  Miss  Lois,  Pere  Michaux, 
and  the  Irish  soldier's  wife,  the  three  boys  acting  as 
volunteers.  Even  Dr.  Gaston  found  his  way  to  the  dis 
tant  sanctuary  through  the  series  of  empty  rooms  that 
preceded  it,  and  proffering  his  services,  was  set  to  toast 
ing  bread — a  duty  he  accomplished  by  attentively  burn 
ing  one  side  of  every  slice,  and  forgetting  the  other,  so 
that  there  was  a  wide  latitude  of  choice,  and  all  tastes 
were  suited.  With  his  wig  pushed  back,  and  his  cheery 
face  scarlet  from  the  heat,  he  presented  a  fine  contrast  to 
Pere  Michaux,  who,  quietly  and  deliberately  as  usual,  was 
seasoning  a  stew  with  scientific  care,  while  Miss  Lois, 


ANNE.  129 

beating  eggs,  harried  the  Irish  soldier's  wife  until  she 
ran  to  and  fro,  at  her  wits'  end. 

Tita  kept  guard  in  the  sitting-room,  where  Anne  had 
been  decisively  ordered  to  remain  and  entertain  Rast; 
the  child  sat  in  her  corner,  watching  them,  her  eyes  nar 
rowed  under  their  partly  closed  lids.  Hast  had  now  re 
covered  his  usual  spirits,  and  talked  gayly ;  Anne  did  not 
say  much,  but  leaned  back  in  her  chair  listening,  thank 
fully  quiet  and  happy.  The  evening  was  radiant  with 
contentment ;  it  was  midnight  when  they  separated.  The 
gale  was  then  as  wild  as  ever ;  but  who  cared  now  wheth 
er  the  old  house  shook  ? 

Rast  was  safe. 

At  the  end  of  the  following*  day  at  last  the  wind  ceased : 
twenty-two  wrecks  were  counted  in  the  Straits  alone, 
with  many  lives  lost  The  dead  sailors  were  washed 
ashore  on  the  island  beaches  and  down  the  coast,  and 
buried  in  the  sands  where  they  were  found.  The  friends 
of  those  who  had  been  washed  overboard  from  the  steamer 
came  up  and  searched  for  their  bodies  up  and  down  the 
shores  for  miles ;  some  found  their  lost,  others,  after  days 
of  watching  in  vain,  went  away  sorrowing,  thinking, 
with  a  new  idea  of  its  significance,  of  that  time  ' '  when 
the  sea  shall  give  up  her  dead." 

After  the  storm  came  halcyon  days.  The  trees  now 
showed  those  brilliant  hues  of  the  American  autumn 
which  as  yet  no  native  poet  has  so  strongly  described,  no 
native  artist  so  vividly  painted,  that  the  older  nations 
across  the  ocean  have  fit  idea  of  their  splendor.  Here, 
in  the  North,  the  scarlet,  orange,  and  crimson  trees  were 
mingled  with  pines,  which  made  the  green  of  the  back 
ground;  indeed,  the  islets  all  round  were  like  gorgeous 
bouquets  set  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  water,  and  floating 
quietly  there. 

Rast  was  to  return  to  college  in  a  few  days.  He  was 
in  such  gay  spirits  that  Miss  Lois  was  vexed,  although 
she  could  hardly  have  told  why.  Pere  Miehaux,  how 
ever,  aided  and  encouraged  all  the  pranks  of  the  young 
student.  He  was  with  him  almost  constantly,  not  re 
turning  to  the  hermitage  at  all  during  the  time  of  his 

9 


130  .        ANNE. 

stay ;  Miss  Lois  was  surprised  to  see  how  fond  he  was  of 
the  youth. 

"No  one  can  see  East  a  moment  alone  now,"  she  said, 
complaiiiingly ;  "  Pere  Michaux  is  always  with  him." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  see  him  alone  ?"  said  Tita,  from 
her  corner,  looking  up  for  a  moment  from  her  book. 

' '  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  rude  to  ask  questions  ?"  said 
Miss  Lois,  sharply.  But  although  she  gave  no  reasons, 
it  was  plain  that  for  some  reason  she  was  disappointed 
and  angry. 

The  last  day  came,  the  last  afternoon;  the  smoke  of 
the  coming  steamer  could  be  seen  beyond  the  blue  line 
of  the  point.  No  danger  now  of  storm;  the  weather 
would  be  fair  for  many  days.  Pere  Michaux  had  pro 
posed  that  Anne,  Hast,  and  himself  should  go  up  to  the 
heights  behind  the  house  and  watch  the  sunset  hues  for 
the  last  time  that  year;  they  were  to  come  back  to  the 
Agency  in  time  to  meet  Dr.  Gaston  and  Miss  Lois,  and 
take  tea  there  all  together,  before  the  steamer's  departure. 
Tita  announced  that  she  wished  to  go  to  the  heights  also. 

"Come  along  then,  Puss,"  said  East,  giving  her  his 
hand. 

They  set  out  through  the  garden,  and  up  the  narrow 
winding  path ;  but  the  ascent  was  steep,  and  the  priest 
climbed  slowly,  patising  now  and  then  to  take  breath. 
East  staid  with  him,  while  Anne  strolled  forward ;  Tita 
waited  with  East.  They  had  been  sitting  on  a  crag  for 
several  minutes,  when  suddenly  East  exclaimed :  ' '  Hallo ! 
there's  Spotty's  dog !  he  has  been  lost  for  three  days,  the 
scamp.  I'll  go  up  and  catch  him,  and  be  back  in  a  mo 
ment."  While  still  speaking  he  was  already  scaling  the 
rocks  above  them,  not  folio  wing  the  path  by  which  Anne 
had  ascended,  but  swinging  himself  up,  hand  over  hand, 
with  the  dexterity  and  strength  of  a  mountaineer;  in  a 
minute  or  two  he  was  out  of  sight.  Spotty's  dog  was  a 
favorite  in  the  garrison,  Spotty,  a  dilapidated  old  Irish 
soldier,  being  his  owner  in  name.  Spotty  said  that  the 
dog  had  "  followed"  him,  when  he  was  passing  through 
Detroit ;  if  he  did,  he  had  never  repeated  the  act,  but  had 
persistently  gone  in  the  opposite  direction  ever  since.  But 


ANNE.  131 

the  men  always  went  out  and  hunted  for  him  all  over  the 
island,  sooner  or  later  finding-  him  and  bringing  him  back ; 
for  they  liked  to  see  him  dance  on  his  mournful  hindr 
legs,  go  through  the  drill,  and  pretend  to  be  dead — feats 
which  once  formed  parts  of  his  repertoire  as  member  of 
the  travelling  canine  troupe  which  he  had  deserted  at  De 
troit.  It  was  considered  quite  an  achievement  to  bring 
back  this  accomplished  animal,  and  Rast  was  not  above 
the  glory.  But  it  was  not  to  be  so  easy  as  he  had  imag 
ined  :  several  minutes  passed  and  he  did  not  return,  Spot 
ty 's  dog  having  shown  his  thin  nose  and  one  eye  but  an 
instant  at  the  top  of  the  height,  and  then  withdrawn  them, 
leaving  110  trace  behind. 

"We  will  go  up  the  path,  and  join  Anne,"  said  Pere 
Michaux ;  ' '  we  will  not  wait  longer  for  Rast.  He  can 
find  us  there  as  well  as  here." 

They  started;  but  after  a  few  steps  the  priest's  foot 
slipped  on  a  rolling  stone ;  he  lost  his  balance,  and  half 
fell,  half  sank  to  the  ground,  fortunately  directly  along 
the  narrow  path,  and  not  beyond  its  edge.  When  he  at 
tempted  to  rise,  he  found  that  his  ankle  was  strained :  he 
was  a  large  man,  and  he  had  fallen  heavily.  Tita  bound 
up  the  place  as  well  as  she  could  with  his  handkerchief 
and  her  own  formed  into  a  bandage ;  but  at  best  he  could 
only  hobble.  He  might  manage  to  go  down  the  path  to 
the  house,  but  evidently  he  could  not  clamber  further. 
Again  they  waited  for  Rast,  but  he  did  not  come.  They 
called,  but  110  one  answered.  They  were  perched  half 
way  up  the  white  cliff,  where  no  one  could  hear  them. 
Tita's  whole  face  had  grown  darkly  red,  as  though  the 
blood  would  burst  through;  she  looked  copper-colored, 
and  her  expression  was  full  of  repressed  impatience.  Pere 
Michaux,  himself  more  perturbed  and  angry  than  so 
slight  a  hurt  would  seem  to  justify,  happening  to  look  at 
her,  was  seized  with  an  idea.  "Run  up,  child,"  he  said, 
' '  and  join  Anne ;  do  not  leave  her  again.  Tell  her  what 
has  happened,  and — mind  what  I  say  exactly,  Tita — do 
not  leave  her." 

Tita  was  off  up  the  path  and  out  of  sight  in  an  instant. 
The  old  priest,  left  to  himself,  hobbled  slowly  down  the 


132  ANNE. 

hill  and  across  the  garden  to  the  Agency,  not  without 
some  difficulty  and  pain. 

Anne  had  gone  up  to  the  heights,  and  seated  herself  in 
good  faith  to  wait  for  the  others ;  Rast  had  gone  after  the 
dog  in  good  faith,  and  not  to  seek  Anne.  Yet  they  met, 
and  the  others  did  not  find  them. 

The  dog  ran  away,  and  East  after  him,  down  the  north 
path  for  a  mile,  and  then  straight  into  the  fir  wood,  where 
nothing  can  be  caught,  man  or  dog.  So  Rast  came  back, 
not  by  the  path,  but  through  the  forest,  and  found  Anne 
sitting  in  a  little  nook  among  the  arbor  vitse,  where  there 
was  an  opening,  like  a  green  window,  overlooking  the 
harbor.  He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  fanned  himself 
with  his  hat  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he  went  down 
to  find  Pere  Michaux  and  bring  him  up  thither.  But  by 
that  time  the  priest  had  reached  the  house,  and  he  re 
turned,  saying  that  he  saw  by  the  foot-marks  that  the  old 
man  had  for  some  reason  gone  down  the  hill  again,  leav 
ing  them  to  watch  their  last  sunset  alone.  He  threw  him 
self  down  by  Anne's  side,  and  together  they  looked 
through  their  green  casement. 

"The  steamer  has  turned  the  point,"  said  Anne. 

They  both  watched  it  in  silence.  They  heard  the  even 
ing  gun  from  the  fort. 

"I  shall  never  forgive  myself,  Rast,  for  having  let  you 
go  before  so  carelessly.  When  the  gale  began  that  night, 
every  blast  seemed  to  go  through  my  heart." 

"I  thought  you  did  not  appear  to  care  much,"  said 
Rast,  in  an  aggrieved  tone. 

' '  Did  you  notice  it,  then  ?  It  was  only  because  I  have 
to  repress  myself  every  moment,  dear,  lest  I  should  give 
way  entirely.  You  know  I  too  must  go  far  away — far 
away  from  all  I  love.  I  feel  it  very  deeply." 

She  turned  toward  him  as  she  spoke,  with  her  eyes  full 
of  tears.  Her  hat  was  off,  and  her  face,  softened  by 
emotion,  looked  for  the  first  time  to  his  eyes  womanly. 
For  generally  that  frank  brow,  direct  gaze,  and  imper 
sonal  expression  gave  her  the  air  of  a  child.  Rast  had 
never  thought  that  Anne  was  beautiful;  he  had  never 
thought  of  himself  as  her  lover.  He  was  very  fond  of 


YOU   KNOW    I   TOO   MUST   GO   FAR   AWAY. 


ANNE.  133 

her,  of  course ;  and.  she  was  very  fond  of  him ;  and  he 
meant  to  be  good  to  her  always.  But  that  was  all.  Now, 
however,  suddenly  a  new  feeling  came  over  him ;  he  re 
alized  that  her  eyes  were  very  lovely,  and  that  her  lips 
trembled  with  emotion.  True,  even  then  she  did  not  turn 
from  him,  rather  toward  him ;  but  he  was  too  young  him 
self  to  understand  these  indications,  and,  carried  away  by 
her  sweetness,  his  own  affection,  and  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  he  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  drew  her  toward! 
him,  sure  that  he  loved  her,  and  especially  sure  that  she 
loved  him.  Poor  Anne,  who  would  soon  have  to  part 
with  him — dear  Anne,  his  old  playmate  and  friend ! 

Half  an  hour  later  he  came  into  the  Agency  sitting- 
room,  where  the  others  were  waiting,  with  a  quick  step 
and  sparkling  eyes,  and,  with  the  tone  and  manner  of  a 
young  conqueror,  announced,  "Dr.  Gaston,  and  all  of 
you,  I  am  going  to  marry  Aniiet.  We  are  engaged." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Shades  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile; 
Morn,  alas !  will  not  restore  us 
Yonder  dear  and  fading  isle. 
Though  'neath  distant  skies  we  wander, 

Still  with  thee  our  thoughts  must  dwell: 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder — 
Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well !" 

—THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

"WE  are  engaged." 

Dr.  Gaston,  who  was  standing,  sat  down  as  though 
struck  down.  Miss  Lois  jumped  up,  and  began  to  laugh 
and  cry  in  a  breath.  Pere  Michaux,  who  was  sitting 
with  his  injured  foot  resting  on  a  stool,  ground  his  hands 
down  suddenly  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  a  sharp  dis 
pleasure  visible  for  an  instant  on  his  face.  But  only  for 
an  instant ;  it  was  gone  before  any  one  saw  it. 

"Oh,  my  darling  boy!"  said  Miss  Lois,  with  her  arms 
round  Rast's  neck.  "I  always  knew  you  would.  You 
are  made  for  each  other,  and  always  were.  Now  we  shall 


134  ANNE. 

have  you  both  with  us  always,  thank  the  Lord !"  Then 
she  sobbed  again,  and  took  a  fresh  and  tighter  hold  of  him. 
* '  I'll  take  the  boys,  dear ;  you  need  not  be  troubled  with 
them.  And  Til  come  over  here  and  live,  so  that  you  and 
Aimet  can  have  the  church-house ;  it's  in  much  better  re 
pair  ;  only  there  should  be  a  new  chimney.  The  dearest 
wish  of  my  heart  is  now  fulfilled,  and  I  am  quite  ready 
to  die." 

East  was  kind  always;  it  was  simply  impossible  for 
him  to  say  or  do  anything  which  could  hurt  the  feelings 
of  any  one  present.  Such  a  course  is  sometimes  contra 
dictory,  since  those  who  are  absent  like  wise  have  "their  feel 
ings  ;  but  it  is  always  at  the  moment  agreeable.  He  kiss 
ed  Miss  Lois  affectionately,  thanked  her,  and  led  her  to 
her  chair;  nor  did  he  stop  there,  but  stood  beside  her 
with  her  hand  in  his  until  she  began  to  recover  her  com 
posure,  wipe  her  eyes,  and  smile.  Then  he  went  across 
to  Dr.  Gaston,  his  faithful  and  early  friend. 

"I  hope  I  have  your  approval,  sir  ?"  he  said,  looking 
very  tall  and  handsome  as  he  stood  by  the  old  man's 
chair. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  chaplain,  extending  his  hand. 
"I  was — I  was  startled  at  first,  of  course;  you  have 
both  seemed  like  children  to  me.  But  if  it  must  be,  it 
must  be.  Only —make  her  happy,  East ;  make  her  happy. " 

"I  shall  try,  sir." 

' '  Come,  doctor,  acknowledge  that  you  have  always  ex 
pected  it,"  said  Miss  Lois,  breaking  into  permanent  sun 
shine,  and  beginning  to  wipe  her  spectacles  in  a  business 
like  way,  which  showed  that  the  moisture  was  ended  for 
the  present. 

"No — yes ;  I  hardly  know  what  I  have  expected,"  an 
swered  the  chaplain,  still  a  little  suffocated,  and  speaking 
thickly.  "  I  do  not  think  I  have  expected  anything." 

' '  Is  there  any  one  else  you  would  prefer  to  have  Rast 
marry  ?  Answer  me  that." 

"No,  no;  certainly  not. " 

"Is  there  any  one  you  would  prefer  to  have  Anne 
marry  ?" 

"Why  need  she  marry  at  all?"  said  the  chaplain, 


ANNE.  135 

boldly,  breaking  through  the  chain  of  questions  clos 
ing  round  him.      "I  am  sure  you  yourself  are  a  bright 
example,  Miss  Hinsdale,  of  the  merits  of  single  life." 
But,  to  his  surprise,  Miss  Lois  turned  upon  him. 
"What!  have  Anne  live  through  my  loneliness,  my 
always-being-misunderstood-ness,  my  general  sense  of  a 
useless  ocean  within  me,  its  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
on  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast?"  she  said,  quoting  ve 
hemently  from  the  only  poem  she  knew.      ' '  Never !" 

While  Dr.  Gaston  was  still  gazing  at  her,  East  turned 
to  Pere  Michaux.     ' '  I  am  sure  of  your  approval, "  he  said, 
smiling  confidently.      "I  have  had  no  doubt  of  that." 
"Haven't  you?"  said  the  priest,  dryly. 
"  No,  sir:  you  have  always  been  my  friend." 
' '  And  I  shall  continue  to  be, "  said  Pere  Michaux.     But 
he  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  hobbled  into  the  hall,  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

Tita  was  hurrying  through  the  garden  on  her  way  from 
the  heights ;  he  waited  for  her. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  asked,  sternly.  - 
The  child  seemed  exhausted,  her  breath  came  in  pant 
ing  gasps ;  her  skirt  was  torn,  her  hair  streaming,  and  the 
dark  red  hue  of  her  face  was  changed  to  a  yellow  pallor. 
"I  have  run  and  run,  I  have  followed  and  followed,  I 
have  listened  with  my  ear  on  the  ground ;  I  have  climbed 
trees  to  look,  I  have  torn  a  path  through  bushes,  and  I 
have  not  found  them,"  she  said,  huskily,  a  slight  froth  on 
her  dry  lips  as  she  spoke,  her  eyes  bright  and  feverish. 

' '  They  are  here, "  said  Pere  Michaux ;  ' '  they  have  been 
at  home  some  time.  What  can  you  have  been  about,  An- 
gelique  ?" 

"I  have  told  you,"  said  the  child,  rolling  her  apron 
tightly  in  her  small  brown  hands.  ' '  I  followed  his  track. 
He  went  down  the  north  path.  I  traced  him  for  a  mile ; 
then  I  lost  him.  In  the  fir  wood.  Then  I  crept,  and 
looked,  and  listened." 

"You  followed  East,  then,  when  I  told  you  to  go  to 
Anne!  Enough.  I  thought,  at  least,  you  were  quick, 
Tita;  but  it  seems  you  are  dull— dull  as  an  owl,"  said  the 
priest,  turning  away.  He  hobbled  to  the  front  door  and 


136  ANNE. 

sat  down  on  the  threshold.  ' '  After  all  my  care, "  he  said 
to  himself,  "  to  be  foiled  by  a  rolling-  stone !" 

Through  the  open  window  he  heard  Miss  Lois  ask 
where  Anne  was.  "Did  she  not  come  back  with  you, 
East  ?" 

' '  Yes,  but  she  was  obliged  to  go  directly  to  the  kitchen. 
Something  about  the  tea,  I  believe." 

"  Oh  no;  it  was  because  she  did  not  want  to  face  us,'* 
said  Miss  Lois,  archly.  "I  will  go  and  bring  her,  the 
dear  child !" 

Pere  Michaux  smiled  contemptuously  in  the  twilight 
outside ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  recovered  his  equanimity 
also.  "Something  about  the  tea!"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Something  about  the  tea !"  He  rose  and  hobbled  into 
the  sitting-room  again  with  regained  cheerfulness.  Miss 
Lois  was  leading  in  Anne.  "  Here  she  is,"  said  the  old 
maid.  ' '  I  found  her ;  hiding,  of  course,  and  trembling. " 

Anne,  smiling,  turned  down  her  cuffs,  and  began  to 
light  the  lamp  as  usual.  ' '  I  had  to  watch  the  broiling  of 
the  birds, "  she  said.  ' '  You  would  not  like  to  have  them 
burned,  would  you  ?" 

Pere  Michaux  now  looked  thoroughly  happy.  "By 
no  means, "he  replied,  hobbling  over  and  patting  her  on 
the  head— "by  no  means,  my  dear."  Then  he  laughed 
contentedly,  and  sat  down.  The  others  might  talk  now ; 
he  was  satisfied. 

When  the  lamp  was  lighted,  everybody  kissed  Anne 
formally,  and  wished  her  happiness,  Pere  Michaux  going 
through  the  little  rite  with  his  finest  Parisian  courtesy. 
The  boys  added  their  caresses,  and  Gabriel  said,  "Of 
course  now  you  won't  go  away,  Aniiet  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  must  go  just  the  same,"  said  the  sister. 

"Certainly,"  said  Pere  Michaux.  "Erastus  can  not 
marry  yet;  he  must  go  through  college,  and  afterward 
establish  himself  in  life." 

"They  could  be  married  next  spring,"  suggested  Miss 
Lois:  "we  could  help  them  at  the  beginning." 

' '  Young  Pronando  is  less  of  a  man  than  I  suppose,  if  he 
allows  any  one  save  himself  to  take  care  of  his  wTife,"  said 
Pere  Michaux,  sententiously. 


ANNE.  137 

"  Of  course  I  shall  not,"  said  Rast,  throwing  back  his 
handsome  head  with  an  air  of  pride. 

' '  That  is  right ;  stand  by  your  decision, "  said  the  priest. 
"And  now  let  us  have  tea.  Enough  has  happened  for 
one  day,  I  think,  and  Rast  must  go  at  dawn.  He  can 
write  as  many  letters  as  he  pleases,  but  in  real  life  he 
has  now  to  show  us  what  metal  he  is  made  of;  I  do  not 
doubt  but  that  it  will  prove  pure  ore." 

Dr.  Gaston  sat  silent ;  he  drank  his  tea,  and  every  now 
and  then  looked  at  Anne.  She  was  cheerful  and  con 
tented;  her  eyes  rested  upon  Rast  with  confidence;  she 
smiled  when  he  spoke  as  if  she  liked  to  hear  his  voice; 
but  of  consciousness,  embarrassment,  hesitation,  there 
was  not  a  trace.  The  chaplain  rubbed  his  forehead  again 
and  again,  and  pushed  his  wig  so  far  back  that  it  looked 
like  a  brown  aureole.  But  if  he  was  perplexed,  Miss  Lois 
was  not ;  the  happy  old  maid  supplied  all  the  conscious 
ness,  archness,  and  sentimental  necessities  of  the  occasion. 
She  had  kept  them  suppressed  for  years,  and  had  a  large 
store  on  hand.  She  radiated  romance. 

While  they  were  taking  tea,  Tita  entered,  languid  and 
indifferent  as  a  city  lady.  No,  she  did  not  care  for  any 
tea,  she  said ;  and  when  the  boys,  all  together,  told  her 
the  great  news,  she  merely  smiled,  fanned  herself,  and  said 
she  had  long  expected  it. 

Miss  Lois  looked  up  sharply,  with  the  intention  of  con 
tradicting  this  statement,  but  Tita  gazed  back  at  her  so 
calmly  that  she  gave  it  up. 

After  Pere  Michaux  had  left  her  in  the  hall,  she  had 
stolen  to  the  back  door  of  the  sitting-room,  laid  her  ear  011 
the  floor  close  to  the  crack  under  it,  and  overheard  all. 
Then,  trembling  and  silent,  she  crept  up  to  her  own  room, 
bolted  the  door,  and,  throwing  herself  down  upon  the 
floor,  rolled  to  and  fro  in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  But  she  was  a 
supple,  light  little  creature,  and  made  no  sound.  When 
her  anger  had  spent  itself,  and  she  had  risen  to  her  feet, 
those  below  had  no  consciousness  that  the  ceiling  above 
them  had  been  ironed  all  over  on  its  upper  side  by  the 
contact  of  a  fierce  little  body,  hot  and  palpitating  wildly. 

Pere  Michaux  threw  himself  into  that  evening  with 


138  ANNE. 

all  the  powers  he  possessed  fully  alert ;  there  were  given 
so  many  hours  to  fill,  and  he  filled  them.  The  young 
lover  Rast,  the  sentimental  Miss  Lois,  the  perplexed  old 
chaplain,  even  the  boys,  all  gave  way  to  his  influence, 
and  listened  or  laughed  at  his  will.  Only  Tita  sat  apart, 
silent  and  cold.  Ten  o'clock,  eleven  o'clock — it  was  cer 
tainly  time  to  separate.  But  the  boys,  although  sleepy  and 
irritable,  refused  to  go  to  bed,  and  fought  with  each  oth 
er  on  the  hearth-rug.  Midnight;  the  old  priest's  flow  of 
fancy  and  wit  was  still  in  full  play,-  and  the  circle  un 
broken. 

At  last  Dr.  Gaston  found  himself  yawning.  "The 
world  will  not  stop,  even  if  we  do  go  to  bed,  my  friends," 
he  said,  rising.  "We  certainly  ought  not  to  talk  or  list 
en  longer  to-night." 

Pere  Michaux  rose  also,  and  linked  his  arm  in  Rast's. 
"I  will  walk  home  with  you,  young  sir,"  he  said,  cor 
dially.  ' '  Miss  Lois,  we  will  take  you  as  far  as  your  gate. " 

Miss  Lois  was  willing,  but  a  little  uncertain  in  her 
movements ;  inclined  toward  delay.  Would  Anne  lend 
her  a  shawl  ?  And,  when  the  young  girl  had  gone  up 
stairs  after  it,  would  Rast  take  the  candle  into  the  hall, 
lest  she  should  stumble  011  her  way  down  ? 

"She  will  not  stumble,"  said  Pere  Michaux.  "She 
never  stumbled  in  her  life,  Miss  Lois.  Of  what  are  you 
thinking  ?" 

Miss  Lois  put  on  the  shawl ;  and  then,  when  they  had 
reached  the  gate,  "Run  back,  Rast, "she  said;  "I  have 
left  my  knitting." 

"Here  it  is, "said  the  priest,  promptly  producing  it. 
"  I  saw  it  011  the  table,  and  took  charge  of  it." 

Miss  Lois  was  very  much  obliged ;  but  she  was  sure  she 
heard  some  one  calling.  Perhaps  it  was  Anne.  If  Rast — 

"  Only  a  night-bird,"  said  Pere  Michaux,  walking  on. 
He  left  Miss  Lois  at  the  church-house;  and  then,  linking 
his  arm  again  in  Rast's,  accompanied  him  to  his  lodg 
ings.  "I  am  going  to  give  you  a  parting  present,"  he 
said — "a  watch,  the  one  I  am  wearing  now.  I  have  an 
other,  which  will  do  very  well  for  this  region." 

The  priest's  watch  was  a  handsome  one,  and  Rast  was 


ANXE.  139 

still  young  enough  to  feel  an  immense  satisfaction  in 
such  a  possession.  He  took  it  with  many  thanks,  and 
frankly  expressed  delight.  The  old  priest  accompanied 
his  gift  with  fatherly  good  wishes  and  advice.  It  was 
now  so  late  that  he  would  take  a  bed  in  the  house,  he 
thought.  In  this  way,  too,  he  would  be  with  Hast,  and 
see  the  last  of  him. 

But  love  laughs  at  parsons. 

Pere  Michaux  saw  his  charge  to  bed,  and  went  to  bed 
himself  in  an  adjoining  room.  He  slept  soundly;  but 
at  the  first  peep  of  dawn  his  charge  was  gone — gone  to 
meet  Anne  on  the  heights,  as  agreed  between  them  the 
night  before. 

O  wise  Pere  Michaux ! 

The  sun  was  not  yet  above  the  horizon,  but  Anne  was 
there.  The  youth  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  looked  at 
her  earnestly.  He  was  half  surprised  himself  at  what  he 
had  done,  and  he  looked  at  her  again  to  see  how  it  had  hap 
pened.  All  his  life  from  earliest  childhood  she  had  been 
his  dearest  companion  and  friend ;  but  now  she  was  his  be 
trothed  wife,  would  she  be  in  any  way  different  ?  The  sun 
came  up,  and  showed  that  she  was  just  the  same — calm, 
clear-eyed,  and  sweet- voiced.  What  more  could  he  ask  ? 

"Do  you  love  me,  Annet  ?"  he  said  more  than  once, 
looking  at  her  as  though  she  ought  to  be  some  new  and 
only  half -comprehended  person. 

"  You  know  I  do,"  she  answered.  Then,  as  he  asked 
again,  "  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?"  she  said.  "Has  not  my 
whole  life  shown  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  growing  more  calm.  "I  believe 
you  have  loved  me  all  your  life,  Annet." 

"I  have,"  replied  the  girl. 

He  kissed  her  gently.  ' '  I  shall  always  be  kind  to  you, " 
he  said.  Then,  with  a  half -sigh,  "You  will  like  to  live 
here?" 

"  It  is  my  home,  Hast.  However,  other  places  will  not 
seem  strange  after  I  have  seen  the  great  city.  For  of 
course  I  must  go  to  New  York,  just  the  same,  to  learn  to 
be  a  teacher,  and  help  the  children :  we  may  be  separated 
for  years." 


140  ANNE. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  shall  he  ahle  to  take  care  of  you  all  before 
long,"  said  East,  grandly.  "As  soon  as  I  have  been 
through  college  I  shall  look  about  and  decide  upon  some 
thing.  Would  you  like  me  to  be  a  lawyer  ?  Or  a  sur 
geon  ?  Then  there  is  always  the  army.  Or  we  might 
have  a  farm." 

"There  is  only  Frobisher's." 

' '  Oh,  you  mean  here  on  the  island  ?  Well,  Frobisher's 
would  do.  We  could  repair  the  old  house,  and  have  a 
pony-cart,  and  drive  in  to  town."  Here  the  steamer 
sounded  its  first  whistle.  That  meant  that  it  would  start 
in  half  an  hour.  Hast  left  the  future  and  his  plans  in 
mid-air,  and  took  Anne  in  his  arms  with  real  emotion. 
"G-ood-by,  dear,  good-by,"  he  said.  "Do  not  grieve,  or 
allow  yourself  to  be  lonely.  I  shall  see  you  soon  in 
some  way,  even  if  I  have  to  go  to  New  York  for  the 
purpose.  Remember  that  you  are  my  betrothed  wife  now. 
That  thought  will  comfort  you." 

' '  Yes, "  said  Anne,  her  sincere  eyes  meeting  his.  Then 
she  clung  to  him  for  a  few  moments,  sobbing.  "You 
must  go  away,  and  I  must  go  away,"  she  said,  amid  her 
tears:  "nothing  is  the  same  any  more.  Father  is  dead, 
and  the  whole  world  will  be  between  us.  Nothing  is  the 
same  any  more.  Nothing  is  the  same." 

"Distance  is  nothing  nowadays,"  said  the  youth, 
soothing  her  ;  "I  can  reach  you  in  almost  no  time, 
Aniiet." 

' '  Yes,  but  nothing  is  the  same  any  more ;  nothing  ever 
will  be  the  same  ever  again, "she  sobbed,  oppressed  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  by  the  vague  uncertainties  of 
the  future. 

"Oh  yes,  it  will,"  said  her  companion,  decidedly.  "I 
will  come  back  here  if  you  wish  it  so  much,  and  you  shall 
come  back,  and  we  will  live  here  on  this  same  old  island 
all  our  lives.  A  man  has  but  to  choose  his  home,  you 
know." 

Anne  looked  somewhat  comforted.  Yet  only  part  of 
her  responded  to  his  words;  she  still  felt  that  nothing 
would  ever  be  quite  the  same  again.  She  could  not  bring 
back  her  father;  she  could  not  bring  back  their  long  hap- 


ANNE.  141 

py  childhood.  The  door  was  closed  behind  them,  and 
they  must  now  go  out  into  the  wide  world. 

The  second  whistle  sounded — another  fifteen  minutes 
gone.  They  ran  down  the  steep  path  together,  meeting 
Miss  Lois  on  her  way  up,  a  green  woollen  hood  on  her 
head  as  a  protection  against  the  morning  air. 

"  You  will  want  a  ring,  my  dears,"  she  said,  breathless 
ly,  as  she  kissed  them — "an  engagement  ring;  it  is  the 
custom,  and  fortunately  I  have  one  for  you." 

With  a  mixture  of  smiles  and  tears  of  delight  and  ex 
citement,  she  took  from  a  little  box  an  old-fashioned 
ring,  and  handed  it  to  East. 

' '  It  was  your  mother's,  dear, "  she  said  to  Anne ;  ' '  your 
father  gave  it  to  me  as  a  memento  of  her  when  you  were 
a  baby.  It  is  most  fit  that  you  should  wear  it. " 

East  examined  the  slender  little  circlet  without  much 
admiration.  It  was  a  hoop  of  very  small  rubies  placed 
close  together,  with  as  little  gold  visible  as  was  possible. 
"I  meant  to  give  Ahnet  a  diamond, "he  said,  with  the 
tone  of  a  young  duke. 

"Oh  no,  Hast," exclaimed  the  girl. 

"But  take  this  for  the  present,"  urged  the  old  maid. 
' '  You  must  not  let  her  go  from  you  without  one ;  it  would 
be  a  bad  sign.  Put  it  on  yourself,  East ;  I  want  to  see 
you  do  it." 

East  slipped  the  circlet  into  its  place  on  Anne's  finger, 
and  then,  with  a  little  flourish  which  became  him  well,  he 
uncovered  his  head,  bent  his  knee,  and  raised  the  hand 
to  his  lips. 

"But  you  have  put  it  on  the  right  hand,"  said  Miss 
Lois,  in  dismay. 

' '  It  does  not  make  any  difference, "  said  East.  ' '  And 
besides,  I  like  the  right  hand;  it  means  more." 

East  did  not  admire  the  old-fashioned  ring,  but  to  Anne 
it  was  both  beautiful  and  sacred.  She  gazed  at  it  with 
a  lovely  light  in  her  eyes,  and  an  earnest  thoughtf  ulness. 
Any  one  could  see  how  gravely  she  regarded  the  little  cer 
emony. 

When  they  came  back  to  the  house,  Dr.  Gaston  was  al 
ready  there,  and  Pere  Michaux  was  limping  up  the  path 


142  ANNE. 

from  the  gate.  He  caught  sight  of  East  and  Anne  to 
gether.  "Check!"  he  said  to  himself.  "So  much  for 
being  a  stupid  old  man.  Outwitted  yesterday  by  a  roll 
ing  stone,  and  to-day  by  your  own  inconceivable  dullness. 
And  you  gave  away  your  watch — did  you  ? — to  prevent 
what  has  happened !  The  girl  has  probably  bound  herself 
formally,  and  now  you  will  have  her  conscience  against 
you  as  well  as  all  the  rest.  Bah !" 

But  while  thinking  this,  he  came  forward  and  greet 
ed  them  all  happily  and  cheerfully,  whereas  the  old  chap 
lain,  who  really  had  no  especial  objection  to  the  engage 
ment,  was  cross  and  silent,  and  hardly  greeted  anybody. 
He  knew  that  he  was  ill-tempered,  and  wondered  why 
he  should  be.  ' '  Anything  unexpected  is  apt  to  disturb 
the  mind,"  he  remarked,  apologetically,  to  the  priest,  tak 
ing  out  his  handkerchief  and  rubbing  his  forehead  vio 
lently,  as  if  to  restore  equanimity  by  counter-circulation. 
But  however  cross  or  quiet  the  others  might  be,  Miss  Lois 
beamed  for  all ;  she  shed  forth  radiance  like  Roman  can 
dles  even  at  that  early  hour,  when  the  air  was  still  chill 
and  the  sky  gray  with  mist.  The  boys  came  down  stairs 
with  their  clothes  half  on,  and  then  Rast  said  good-by, 
and  hurried  down  to  the  pier,  and  they  all  stood  together 
on  the  old  piazza,  and  watched  the  steamer  back  out  into 
the  stream,  turn  round,  and  start  westward,  the  point  of 
the  island  soon  hiding  it  from  view.  Then  Dr.  Gaston 
took  his  unaccountable  ill  temper  homeward,  Pere  Mi- 
chaux  set  sail  for  the  hermitage,  Anne  sat  down  to  sew, 
and  only  Miss  Lois  let  every-day  life  take  care  of  itself, 
and  cried  on. 

"  I  know  there  will  be  no  more  storms,"  she  said ;  "it 
isn't  that.  But  it  is  everything  that  has  happened,  Anne 
dear:  the  engagement,  and  the  romance  of  it  all !" 

Tita  now  entered :  she  had  not  appeared  before.  She 
required  that  fresh  coffee  should  be  prepared  for  her,  and 
she  obtained  it.  For  the  Irish  soldier's  wife  was  almost 
as  much  afraid  of  her  as  the  boys  were.  She  glanced  at 
Miss  Lois  s  happy  tears,  at  Anne's  ruby  ring,  at  the  gen 
eral  disorder. 

"  And  all  this  for  a  mere  boy !"  she  said,  superbly. 


ANNE.  143 

Miss  Lois  stopped  crying  from  sheer  astonishment. 
"And  pray,  may  I  ask,  what  are  you  ?"  she  demanded. 

"A  girl ;  and  about  on  a  line  with  the  boy  referred  to," 
replied  Miss  Tita,  composedly.  "Anne  is  much  too  old." 

The  boys  gave  a  laugh  of  scorn.  Tita  turned  and  look 
ed  at  them,  and  they  took  to  the  woods  for  the  day.  Miss 
Lois  cried  no  more,  but  began  to  sew ;  there  was  a  vague 
dread  in  her  heart  as  to  what  the  winter  would  be  with 
Tita  in  the  church-house.  "If  I  could  only  cut  off  her 
hair!"  she  thought,  with  a  remembrance  of  Samson. 
"  Never  was  such  hair  seen  on  any  child  before." 

As  Tita  sat  on  her  low  bench,  the  two  long  thick  braids 
of  her  black  hair  certainly  did  touch  the  floor ;  and  most 
New  England  wx>men,  who,  whether  from  the  nipping 
climate  or  their  Roundhead  origin,  have,  as  a  class,  rather 
scanty  locks,  would  have  agreed  with  Miss  Lois  that ' '  such 
a  mane"  was  unnatural  on  a  girl  of  that  age — indeed, 
intolerable. 

Amid  much  sewing,  planning,  and  busy  labor,  time  flew 
on.  Dr.  Gaston  did  not  pretend  to  do  anything  else  now 
save  come  down  early  in  the  morning  to  the  Agency, 
and  remain  nearly  all  day,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  some 
times  with  a  book  before  him,  but  hardly  turning  a  page. 
His  dear  young  pupil,  his  almost  child,  was  going  away. 
He  tried  not  to  think  how  lonely  he  should  be  without  her. 
Pere  Michaux  came  frequently ;  he  spoke  to  Tita  with  a 
new  severity,  and  often  with  a  slight  shade  of  sarcasm  in 
his  voice.  ' '  Are  you  not  a  little  too  severe  with  her  ?"  ask 
ed  Miss  Lois  one  day,  really  fearing  lest  Tita,  in  revenge, 
might  go  out  on  some  dark  night  and  set  fire  to  the  house. 
' '  He  is  my  priest,  isn't  he,  and  not  yours  ?  He  shall 
order  me  to  do  what  he  pleases,  and  I  shall  do  it,"  answer 
ed  the  small  person  whom  she  had  intended  to  defend. 

And  now  every  day  more  and  more  beautiful  grew  the 
hues  on  the  trees ;  it  was  a  last  intensity  of  color  before 
the  long,  cold,  dead-white  winter.  All  the  maple  and 
oak  leaves  were  now  scarlet,  orange,  or  crimson,  each 
hue  vivid ;  they  died  in  a  glory  to  which  no  tropical  leaf 
ever  attains.  The  air  was  warm,  hazy,  and  still — the 
true  air  of  Indian  summer;  and  as  if  to  justify  the  term, 


144  ANNE. 

the  Indians  on  the  mainland  and  islands  were  busy  bring 
ing  potatoes  and  game  to  the  village  to  sell,  fishing,  cut 
ting  wood,  and  begging,  full  of  a  tardy  activity  before  the 
approach  of  winter.  Anne  watched  them  crossing  in 
their  canoes,  and  landing  on  the  beach,  and  when  occa 
sionally  the  submissive,  gentle-eyed  squaws,  carrying 
their  little  pappooses,  came  to  the  kitchen  door  to  beg,  she 
herself  went  out  to  see  them,  and  bade  the  servant  give 
them  something.  They  were  Chippewas,  dark-skinned 
and  silent,  wearing  short  calico  skirts,  and  a  blanket 
drawn  over  their  heads.  Patient  and  uncomplaining  by 
nature,  they  performed  almost  all  the  labor  on  their  small 
farms,  cooked  for  their  lords  and  masters,  and  took  care 
of  the  children,  as  their  share  of  the  duties  of  life,  the  hus 
bands  being  warriors,  and  above  common  toil.  Anne 
knew  some  of  these  Chippewa  women  personally,  and 
could  talk  to  them  in  their  own  tongue ;  but  it  was  not 
old  acquaintance  which  made  her  go  out  and  see  them 
now.  It  was  the  feeling  that  they  belonged  to  the  island, 
to  the  life  which  she  must  soon  leave  behind.  She  felt 
herself  clinging  to  everything— to  the  trees,  to  the  white 
cliffs,  to  the  very  sunshine— like  a  person  dragged  along 
against  his  will,  who  catches  at  every  straw. 

The  day  came  at  last ;  the  eastern-bound  steamer  was  at 
the  pier;  Anne  must  go.  Dr.  Gaston's  eyes  were  wet; 
with  choked  utterance  he  gave  her  his  benediction.  Miss 
Lois  was  depressed;  but  her  depression  had  little  oppor 
tunity  to  make  itself  felt,  on  account  of  the  clamor  and 
wild  behavior  of  the  boys,  which  demanded  her  constant 
attention.  The  clamor,  however,  was  not  so  alarming  as 
the  velvety  goodness  of  Tita.  What  could  the  child  be 
planning  ?  The  poor  old  maid  sighed,  as  she  asked  her 
self  this  question,  over  the  life  that  lay  before  her.  But 
twenty  such  lives  would  not  wear  out  Lois  Hinsdale. 
Pere  Michaux  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  kept  them  all 
in  order.  He  calmed  the  boys,  encouraged  Anne,  cheer 
ed  the  old  chaplain  and  Miss  Lois,  led  them  all  down  the 
street  and  on  board  the  boat,  then  back  on  the  pier  again, 
where  they  could  see  Anne  standing  011  the  high  deck 
above  them.  He  shook  the  boys  when  they  howled  iu 


ANNE.  145 

their  grief  too  loudly,  and  as  the  steamer  moved  out  into 
the  stream  he  gave  his  arm  to  Miss  Lois,  who,  for  the  mo 
ment  forgetting  everything  save  that  the  dear  little  baby 
whom  she  had  loved  so  long  was  going  away,  burst  into 
convulsive  tears.  Tita  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  pier,  and 
watched  the  boat  silently.  She  did  not  speak  or  wave  her 
handkerchief ;  she  shed  no  tears.  But  long  after  the  oth 
ers  had  gone  home,  when  the  steamer  was  a  mere  speck 
low  down  on  the  eastern  horizon,  she  sat  there  still. 

Yes,  Anne  was  gone. 

And  now  that  she  was  gone,  it  was  astonishing  to  see 
what  a  void  was  left.  No  one  had  especially  valued  or 
praised  her  while  she  was  there ;  she  was  a  matter  of  course. 
But  now  that  she  was  absent,  the  whole  life  of  the  village 
seemed  changed.  There  was  no  one  to  lead  the  music  on 
Sundays,  standing  by  the  organ  and  singing  clearly,  and 
Miss  Lois's  playing  seemed  now  doubly  dull  and  mechan 
ical.  There  was  no  one  going  up  to  the  fort  at  a  certain 
hour  every  morning,  passing  the  windows  where  the  fort 
ladies  sat,  with  books  under  her  arm.  There  was  no  one 
working  in  the  Agency  garden ;  no  one  coming  with  a 
quick  step  into  the  butcher's  little  shop  to  see  what  he 
had,  and  consult  him,  not  without  hidden  anxiety,  as  to 
the  possibility  of  a  rise  in  prices.  There  was  no  one  sew 
ing  on  the  piazza,  or  going  out  to  find  the  boys,  or  sail 
ing  over  to  the  hermitage  with  the  four  black-eyed  chil 
dren,  who  plainly  enough  needed  even  more  holy  in 
struction  than  they  obtained.  They  all  knew  everything 
she  did,  and  all  her  ways.  And  as  it  was  a  small  commu 
nity,  they  missed  her  sadly.  The  old  Agency,  too,  seemed 
to  become  suddenly  dilapidated,  almost  ruinous ;  the  boys 
were  undeniably  rascals,  and  Tita  ' '  a  little  minx. "  Miss 
Lois  was  without  doubt  a  dogmatic  old  maid,  and  the 
chaplain  not  what  he  used  to  be,  poor  old  man — fast  break 
ing  up.  Only  Pere  Michaux  bore  the  test  unaltered. 
But  then  he  had  not  leaned  upon  this  young  girl  as  the 
others  had  leaned — the  house  and  garden,  the  chaplain  as 
well  as  the  children  :  the  strong  young  nature  had  in  one 
way  supported  them  all. 

Meanwhile  the  girl  herself  was  journeying  down  the 
10 


146  ANNE. 

lake.  She  stood  at  the  stern,  watching-  the  island  grow 
distant,  grow  purple,  grow  lower  and  lower  on  the  surface 
of  the  water,  until  at  last  it  disappeared ;  then  she  covered 
her  face  and  wept.  After  this,  like  one  who  leaves  the 
vanished  past  behind  him,  and  resolutely  faces  the  fu 
ture,  she  went  forward  to  the  bow  and  took  her  seat  there. 
Night  came  on;  she  remained  on  deck  through  the  even 
ing  :  it  seemed  less  lonely  there  than  among  the  passen 
gers  in  the  cabin.  She  knew  the  captain ;  and  she  had 
been  especially  placed  in  his  charge,  also,  by  Pere  Mi- 
chaux,  as  far  as  one  of  the  lower-lake  ports,  where  she 
was  to  be  met  by  a  priest  and  taken  to  the  eastern-bound 
train.  The  captain,  a  weather-beaten  man,  past  middle 
age,  came  after  a  while  and  sat  down  near  her. 

"What  is  that  red  light  over  the  shore-line?"  said 
Anne  to  her  taciturn  companion,  who  sat  and  smoked 
near  by,  protecting  her  paternally  by  his  presence,  but 
having  apparently  few  words,  and  those  husky,  at  his 
command. 

"Fire  in  the  woods." 

"  Is  it  not  rather  late  in  the  season  for  a  forest  fire  ?" 

"Well,  there  it  is,"  answered  the  captain,  declining 
discussion  of  the  point  in  face  of  obvious  fact. 

Anne  had  already  questioned  him  on  the  subject  of 
light-houses.  Would  he  like  to  live  in  a  light-house  ? 

No,  he  would  not. 

But  they  might  be  pleasant  places  in  summer,  with 
the  blue  water  all  round  them:  she  had  often  thought 
she  would  like  to  live  in  one. 

Well,  he  wouldn't. 

But  why  ? 

Resky  places  sometimes  when  the  wind  blew :  give  him 
a  good  stiddy  boat,  now. 

After  a  time  they  came  nearer  to  the  burning  forest. 
Anne  could  see  the  great  columns  of  flame  shoot  up  into 
the  sky ;  the  woods  were  on  fire  for  miles.  She  knew  that 
the  birds  were  flying,  dizzy  and  blinded,  before  the  terri 
ble  conqueror,  that  the  wild-cats  were  crying  like  chil 
dren,  that  the  small  wolves  were  howling,  and  that  the 
more  timid  wood  creatures  were  cowering  behind  fallen 


ANNE.  147 

trunks,  their  eyes  dilated  and  eai^s  laid  flat  'in  terror. 
She  knew  all  this  because  she  had  often  heard  it  de 
scribed,  fires  miles  long  in  the  pine  forests  being  frequent 
occurrences  in  the  late  summer  and  early  autumn;  but 
she  had  never  before  seen  with  her  own  eyes  the  lurid 
splendor,  as  there  was  no  unbroken  stretch  of  pineries  on 
the  Straits.  She  sat  silently  watching  the  great  clouds 
of  red  light  roll  up  into  the  dark  sky,  and  the  shower  of 
sparks  higher  still.  The  advance-guard  was  of  lapping 
tongues  that  caught  at  and  curled  through  the  green 
wood  far  in  front ;  then  came  a  wall  of  clear  orange-col 
ored  roaring  fire,  then  the  steady  incandescence  that  was 
consuming  the  hearts  of  the  great  trees,  and  behind,  the 
long  range  of  dying  fires  like  coals,  only  each  coal  was 
a  tree.  It  grew  late ;  she  went  to  her  state-room  in  order 
that  the  captain  might  be  relieved  from  his  duty  of  guard. 
But  for  several  hours  longer  she  sat  by  her  small  window, 
watching  the  flames,  which  turned  to  a  long  red  line  as 
the  steamer's  course  carried  her  farther  from  the  shore. 
She  was  thinking  of  those  she  had  left  behind,  and  of 
the  island ;  of  East,  and  her  own  betrothal.  The  betroth 
al  seemed  to  her  quite  natural ;  they  had  always  been  to 
gether  in  the  past,  and  now  they  would  always  be  togeth 
er  in  the  future ;  she  was  content  that  it  was  so.  She 
knew  so  little  of  the  outside  world  that  few  forebodings 
as  to  her  own  immediate  present  troubled  her.  She  was 
on  her  way  to  a  school  where  she  would  study  hard,  so  as 
soon  to  be  able  to  teach,  and  help  the  children ;  the  boys 
were  to  be  educated  one  by  one,  and  after  the  first  year, 
perhaps,  she  could  send  for  Tita,  since  Miss  Lois  never  un 
derstood  the  child  aright,  failing  to  comprehend  her  pecul 
iar  nature,  and  making  her,  poor  little  thing,  uncomfort 
able.  It  would  be  a  double  relief — to  Miss  Lois  as  well  as 
Tita.  It  was  a  pity  that  her  grand-aunt  was  so  hard  and 
ill-tempered ;  but  probably  she  was  old  and  infirm.  Per 
haps  if  she  could  see  Tita,  she  might  take  a  fancy  to  the 
child ;  Tita  was  so  small  and  so  soft-voiced,  whereas  she, 
Anne,  was  so  overgrown  and  awkward.  She  gave  a 
thought  of  regret  to  her  own  deficiencies,  but  hardly  a 
sigh.  They  were  matters  of  fact  which  she  had  long  ago 


148  ANNE. 

accepted.  The  coast  fire  had  now  faded  into  a  line  of 
red  dots  and  a  dull  light  above  them;  she  knelt  down 
and  prayed,  not  without  the  sadness  which  a  lonely 
young  traveller  might  naturally  feel  on  the  broad  dark 
lake. 

At  the  lower-lake  port  she  was  met  by  an  old  French 
priest,  one  of  Pere  Michaux's  friends,  who  took  her  to 
the  railway  station  in  a  carriage,  bought  her  ticket, 
checked  her  trunk,  gave  her  a  few  careful  words  of  in 
struction  as  to  the  journey,  and  then,  business  matters 
over,  sat  down  by  her  side  and  talked  to  her  with  en 
chanting  politeness  and  ease  until  the  moment  of  depart 
ure.  Pere  Michaux  had  arranged  this:  although  not  of 
their  faith,  Anne  was  to  travel  all  the  way  to  New  York 
in  the  care  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  represented 
by  its  priests,  handed  from  one  to  the  next,  and  met  at  the 
entrance  of  the  great  city  by  another,  who  would  cross 
the  river  for  the  purpose,  in  order  that  her  young  island 
eyes  might  not  be  confused  by  the  crowd  and  turmoil. 
At  first  Dr.  Gaston  had  talked  of  escorting  Anne  in  per 
son  ;  but  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  travelled  anywhere, 
and  he  was  so  absent-minded,  that  it  was  evident  even 
to  himself  that  Anne  would  in  reality  escort  him.  Miss 
Lois  had  the  children,  and  of  course  could  not  leave 
them. 

"I  would  go  myself  if  there  was  any  necessity  for  it," 
said  Pere  Michaux,  "but  there  is  not.  Let  me  arrange  it, 
and  I  promise  you  that  Anne  shall  reach  her  school  in 
safety;  I  will  have  competent  persons  to  meet  her  all 
along  the  route — unless,  indeed,  you  have  friends  of  your 
own  upon  whom  you  prefer  to  rely  ?" 

This  was  one  of  the  little  winds  which  Pere  Michaux 
occasionally  sent  over  the  self-esteem  of  his  two  Protest 
ant  companions :  he  could  not  help  it.  Dr.  Gaston  frown 
ed  :  he  had  not  an  acquaintance  between  New  York  and 
the  island,  and  Pere  Michaux  knew  it.  But  Miss  Lois, 
undaunted,  rushed  into  the  fray. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  it  would  be  quite  easy  for  us  to  have 
her  met  by  friends  on  the  way,"  she  began,  making  for 
the  moment  common  and  Protestant  cause  with  Dr. 


ANNE.  149 

Gaston ;  "it  would  require  only  a  few  letters.  In  New 
England  I  should  have  my  own  family  connections  to 
call  upon  —  persons  of  the  highest  respectability,  de 
scendants,  most  of  them,  of  the  celebrated  patriot  Israel 
Putnam." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Pere  Michaux.  "I  understand. 
Then  I  will  leave  Anne  to  you." 

' '  But  unfortunately,  as  Anne  is  going  to  New  York, 
not  Boston,  my  connections  do  not  live  along  the  route, 
exactly,"  continued  Miss  Lois,  the  adverb  standing  for  a 
small  matter  of  a  thousand  miles  or  so;  "nor,"  she  add 
ed,  again  admitting  Dr.  Gaston  to  a  partnership,  ' '  can  we 
make  them." 

"There  remain,  then,  the  pastors  of  your  church,"  sai*1 
the  priest. 

' '  Certainly — the  pastors.  It  will  be  the  simplest  thing 
in  the  world  for  Dr.  Gaston  to  write  to  them ;  they  will  be 
delighted  to  take  charge  of  any  friend  of  ours." 

The  chaplain  pushed  his  wig  back  a  little,  and  murmur 
ed,  "  Church  Almanac." 

Miss  Lois  glanced  at  him  angrily.  "I  am  sure  I  do 
not  know  what  Dr.  Gaston  means  by  mentioning  '  Church 
Almanac'  in  that  way,"  she  said,  sharply.  "We  know 
most  of  the  prominent  pastors,  of  course.  Dr.  Shepherd, 
for  instance,  and  Dr.  Dell." 

Dr.  Shepherd  and  Dr.  Dell,  who  occasionally  came  up 
to  the  island  during  the  summer  for  a  few  days  of  rest, 
lived  in  the  lower -lake  town  where  Anne's  long  rail 
way  journey  began.  They  were  not  pastors,  but  rectors, 
and  the  misuse  of  the  terms  grated  on  the  chaplain's 
Anglican  ear.  But  he  was  a  patient  man,  and  accus 
tomed  now  to  the  heterogeneous  phrasing  of  the  Western 
border. 

"And  besides,"  added  Miss  Lois,  triumphantly,  "there 
is  the  bishop !" 

Now  the  bishop  lived  five  miles  farther.  It  was  not 
evident,  therefore,  to  the  ordinary  mind  what  aid  these 
reverend  gentlemen  could  give  to  Anne,  all  living,  as 
they  did,  at  the  western  beginning  of  her  railway  jour 
ney  ;  but  Miss  Lois,  who,  like  others  of  her  sex,  possessed 


150  ANNE. 

the  power  (unattainable  by  man)  of  rising  above  mere 
logical  sequence,  felt  that  she  had  conquered. 

"  I  have  no  bishops  to  offer,"  said  Pere  Michaux,  with 
mock  humility;  "only  ordinary  priests.  I  will  there 
fore  leave  Anne  to  your  care,  Miss  Lois— yours  and  Dr. 
Gaston's. " 

So  the  discussion  ended,  and  Miss  Lois  came  off  with 
Protestant  colors  flying.  None  the  less  Pere  Michaux 
wrote  his  letters ;  and  Dr.  Gaston  did  not  write  his.  For 
the  two  men  understood  each  other.  There  was  no  need 
for  the  old  chaplain  to  say,  plainly,  ' '  I  have  lived  out  of 
the  world  so  long  that  I  have  not  a  single  clerical  friend 
this  side-  of  New  York  upon  whom  I  can  call" ;  the  priest 
comprehended  it  without  words.  And  there  was  no  need 
for  Pere  Michaux  to  parade  the  close  ties  and  net-work 
of  communication  which  prevailed  in  the  ancient  Church 
to  which  he  belonged ;  the  chaplain  knew  them  without 
the  telling.  Eacli  understood  the  other;  and  being  men, 
they  could  do  without  the  small  teasing  comments,  like 
the  buzzing  of  flies,  with  which  women  enliven  their 
days.  Thus  it  happened  that  Anne  Douglas  travelled 
from  the  northern  island  across  to  the  great  city  on 
the  ocean  border  in  the  charge  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church. 

She  arrived  in  New  York  worn  out  and  bewildered,  and 
having  lost  her  sense  of  comparison  by  the  strangeness 
and  fatigue  of  the  long  journey,  she  did  not  appreciate 
the  city's  size,  the  crowded  streets,  and  roar  of  traffic,  but 
regarded  everything  vaguely,  like  a  tired  child  who  has 
neither  surprise  nor  attention  to  give. 

At  length  the  carriage  stopped ;  she  went  up  a  broad 
flight  of  stone  steps  ;  she  was  entering  an  open  door. 
Some  one  was  speaking  to  her;  she  was  in  a  room  where 
there  were  chairs,  and  she  sank  down.  The  priest  who 
had  brought  her  from  the  other  side  of  the  river  was  ex 
changing  a  few  words  with  a  lady ;  he  was  going ;  he  was 
gone.  The  lady  was  coming  toward  her. 

"You  are  very  tired,  my  child,-"  she  said.  "Let  me 
take  you  a  moment  to  Tante,  and  then  you  can  go  to  your 
room." 


ANNE.  151 

"To  Tante r<"  said  Anne. 

"  Yes,  to  Tante,  or  Madame  Moreau,  the  principal  of 
the  school.     She  expects  you." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Manners — not  what,  but  how.  Manners  are  happy  ways  of  doing 
things;  each  once  a  stroke  of  genius  or  of  love — now  repeated  and 
hardened  into  usage.  Manners  require  time ;  nothing  is  more  vulgar 
than  haste." — EMEESON. 

MADAME  MOREAU  was  a  Frenchwoman,  small  and  old, 
with  a  thin  shrewd  face  and  large  features.  She  wore  a 
plain  black  satin  gown,  the  narrow  skirt  gathered  in  the 
old-f ashioiied  style,  and  falling  straight  to  the  floor ;  the 
waist  of  the  gown,  fastened  behind,  was  in  front  plait 
ed  into  a  long  rounded  point.  Broad  ruffles  of  fine  lace 
shielded  her  throat  and  hands,  and  her  cap,  garnished 
with  violet  velvet,  was  trimmed  with  the  same  delicate 
fabric.  She  was  never  a  handsome  woman  even  in  youth, 
and  she  was  now  seventy-five  years  of  age ;  yet  she  was 
charming. 

She  rose,  kissed  the  young  girl  lightly  on  each  cheek, 
and  said  a  few  words  of  welcome.  Her  manner  was  af 
fectionate,  but  impersonal.  She  never  took  fancies ;  but 
neither  did  she  take  dislikes.  That  her  young  ladies  were 
all  charming  young  persons  was  an  axiom  never  allowed 
to  be  brought  into  question ;  that  they  were  simply  and 
gracefully  feminine  was  with  equal  firmness  established. 
Other  schools  of  modern  and  American  origin  might 
make  a  feature  of  public  examinations,  with  questions  by 
bearded  professors  from  boys'  colleges ;  but  the  establish 
ment  of  Madame  Moreau  knew  nothing  of  such  innova 
tions.  The  Frenchwoman's  idea  was  not  a  bad  one ;  good 
or  bad,  it  was  inflexible.  She  was  a  woman  of  marked 
character,  and  may  be  said  to  have  accomplished  much 
good  in  a  mannerless  generation  and  land.  Thorough 
ly  French,  she  was  respected  and  loved  by  all  her  Amer- 


152  ANNE. 

lean  scholars ;  and  it  will  be  long  ere  her  name  and  mem 
ory  fade  away. 

Miss  Van  horn  did  not  come  to  see  her  niece  until  a 
week  had  passed.  Anne  had  been  assigned  to  the  lowest 
French  class  among  the  children,  had  taken  her  first 
singing  lesson  from  one  Italian,  fat,  rosy,  and  smiling, 
and  her  first  Italian  lesson  from  another,  lean,  old,  and 
soiled,  had  learned  to  answer  questions  in  the  Moreau 
French,  and  to  talk  a  little,  as  well  as  to  comprehend 
the  fact  that  her  clothes  were  remarkable,  and  that  she 
herself  was  considered  an  oddity,  when  one  morning 
Tante  sent  word  that  she  was  to  come  down  to  the  draw 
ing-room  to  see  a  visitor. 

The  visitor  was  an  old  woman  with  black  eyes,  a  black 
wig,  shining  false  teeth,  a  Roman  nose,  and  a  high  color 
(which  was,  however,  natural),  and  she  was  talking  to 
Tante,  who,  with  her  own  soft  gray  hair,  and  teeth  which 
if  false  did  not  appear  so,  looked  charmingly  real  beside 
her.  Miss  Vanhorn  was  short  and  stout ;  she  was  muf 
fled  in  an  India  shawl,  and  upon  her  hands  were  a  pair  of 
cream-colored  kid  gloves  much  too  large  for  her,  so  that 
when  she  fumbled,  as  she  did  every  few  moments,  in  an 
embroidered  bag  for  aromatic  seeds  coated  with  sugar, 
she  had  much  difficulty  in  finding  them,  owing  to  the 
empty  wrinkled  ends  of  the  glove  fingers.  She  lifted  a 
gold-rimmed  eye-glass  to  her  eyes  as  Anne  entered,  and 
coolly  inspected  her. 

"Dear  me!  dear  me!"  she  said.  Then,  in  execrable 
French,  "What  can  be  done  with  such  a  young  savage 
as  this  ?" 

"How  do  you  do,  aunt?"  said  Anne,  using  the  con 
ventional  words  with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice.  This 
was  the  wroman  who  had  brought  up  her  mother — her 
dear,  un  remembered  mother. 

"  Graiidaunt,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  tartly.  "  Sit  down; 
I  can  not  bear  to  have  people  standing  in  front  of  me. 
How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  seventeen,  grandaunt." 

Miss  Vanhorn  let  her  eyeglass  drop,  and  groaned. 
4 '  Can  anything  be  done  with  her  ?"  she  asked,  closing 


•'DEAR  ME,  WHAT   CAN   BE    DONE    WITH   SUCH   A   YOUNG   SAVAGE?" 


ANNE.  153 

her  eyes  tightly,  and  turning  toward  Tante,  while  Anne 
flushed  crimson,  not  so  much  from  the  criticism  as  the 
unkindness. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Tante,  taking  the  opportunity  given  by 
the  closed  eyes  to  pat  the  young  girl's  hand  encouraging 
ly.  ' '  Miss  Douglas  is  very  intelligent ;  and  she  has  a  fine 
mezzo-soprano  voice.  Signor  Belzini  is  much  pleased 
with  it.  It  would  be  well,  also,  I  think,  if  you  would  al 
low  her  to  take  a  few  dancing  lessons." 

"She  will  have  no  occasion  for  dancing,"  answered 
Miss  Van  horn,  still  with  her  eyes  closed. 

k '  It  was  not  so  much  for  the  dancing  itself  as  for 
grace  of  carriage,"  replied  Tante.  "Miss  Douglas  has  a 
type  of  figure  rare  among  American  girls." 

"  I  should  say  so,  indeed !"  groaned  the  other,  shaking 
her  head  gloomily,  still  voluntarily  blinded. 

"But  none  the  less  beautiful  in  its  way,"  continued 
Tante,  unmoved.  "  It  is  the  Greek  type." 

"I  am  not  acquainted  with  any  Greeks, " replied  Miss 
Vanhorn. 

' '  You  are  still  as  devoted  as  ever  to  the  beautiful  and 
refined  study  of  plant  life,  dear  madame,"  pursued  Tante, 
changing  the  current  of  conversation.  "How  delight 
ful  to  have  a  young  relative  to  assist  you,  with  the  fresh 
and  ardent  interest  belonging  to  her  age,  when  the  flowers 
bloom  again  upon  the  rural  slopes  of  Haarderwyck !"  As 
Tante  said  this,  she  looked  off  dreamily  into  space,  as  if 
she  saw  aunt  and  niece  wandering  together  through 
groves  of  allegorical  flowers. 

' '  She  is  not  likely  to  see  Haarderwyck, "  answered  Miss 
Vanhorn.  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause — a  pause  which 
Tante  did  not  break — she  peered  at  Anne  with  half-open 
eyes,  and  asked,  abruptly,  "  Do  you,  then,  know  anything 
of  botany  ?" 

Tante  made  a  slight  motion  with  her  delicate  withered 
old  hand.  But  Anne  did  not  comprehend  her,  and  an 
swered,  honestly,  "No,  grandaunt,  I  do  not." 

"Bah!"  said  Miss  Vanhorn;  "I  might  have  known 
without  the  asking.  Make  what  you  can  of  her,  ma- 
dame.  I  will  pay  your  bill  for  one  year:  no  longer. 


154  ANNE. 

But  no  nonsense,  no  extras,  mind  that."  Again  she 
sought  a  caraway  seed,  pursuing  it  vindictively  along 
the  bottom  of  her  bag,  arid  losing  it  at  the  last,  after  all. 

"As  regards  wardrobe.  I  would  advise  some  few 
changes, "  said  Tante,  smoothly.  ' '  It  is  one  of  my  axioms 
that  pupils  study  to  greater  advantage  when  their 
thoughts  are  not  disturbed  by  deficiencies  in  dress.  Con 
formity  to  our  simple  standard  is  therefore  desirable." 

' '  It  may  be  desirable ;  it  is  not  always,  on  that  account, 
attainable,"  answered  Miss  Vanhorn,  conveying  a  final 
ly  caught  seed  to  her  mouth,  dropping  it  at  the  last  mo 
ment,  and  carefully  and  firmly  biting  the  seam  of  the 
glove  finger  in  its  place. 

"Purchases  are  made  for  the  pupils  with  discretion 
by  one  of  our  most  experienced  teachers,"  continued 
Tante. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  her  visitor,  releasing  the  glove 
finger,  and  pretending  to  chew  the  seed  which  was  not 
there. 

"But  I  do  not  need  anything,  Tante,"  interposed 
Anne,  the  deep  color  deepening  in  her  cheeks. 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  her  graiidaunt,  dryly, 
"since  you  will  have  nothing." 

She  went  away  soon  afterward  somewhat  placated, 
owing  to  skillful  reminiscences  of  a  favorite  cousin,  who, 
it  seemed,  had  been  one  of  Tante's  "dearest  pupils"  in 
times  past;  "a  true  Vanhorn,  worthy  of  her  Knicker 
bocker  blood."  The  word  " Neeker-bo-ker, "  delicately 
comprehended,  applied,  and,  what  was  more  important 
still,  limited,  was  one  of  Tante's  most  telling  achieve 
ments— a  shibboleth.  She  knew  all  the  old  Dutch  names, 
and  remembered  their  intermarriages ;  she  was  acquainted 
with  the  peculiar  flavor  of  Huguenot  descent ;  she  compre 
hended  the  especial  aristocracy  of  Tory  families,  whose 
original  property  had  been  confiscated  by  a  raw  republic 
under  George  Washington.  Ah  !  skillful  old  Tante, 
what  a  general  you  would  have  made ! 

Anne  Douglas,  the  new  pupil,  was  now  left  to  face  the 
school  with  her  island-made  gowns,  and  what  courage 
she  could  muster.  Fortunately  the  gowns  were  black 


ANNE.  155 

•and  severely  plain.  Tante,  not  at  all  disturbed  by  Miss 
Vanhoni's  refusal,  ordered  a  simple  cloak  and  bonnet  for 
her  through  an  inexpensive  French  channel,  so  that  in 
the  street  she  passed  unremarked ;  but,  in  the  house,  ev- 
ery-day  life  required  more  courage  than  scaling  a  wall. 
Girls  are  not  brutal,  like  boys,  but  their  light  wit  is  pit 
iless.  The  Southern  pupils,  provided  generously  with 
money  in  the  lavish  old-time  Southern  way,  the  day 
scholars,  dressed  with  the  exquisite  simplicity  of  North 
ern  school-girls  of  good  family,  glanced  with  amusement 
at  the  attire  of  this  girl  from  the  Northwest.  This  girl,  be 
ing  young,  felt  their  glances;  as  a  refuge,  she  threw  her 
self  into  her  studies  with  double  energy,  and  gaining 
confidence  respecting  what  she  had  been  afraid  was  her 
island  patois,  she  advanced  so  rapidly  in  the  French  class 
es  that  she  passed  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest,  and  was 
publicly  congratulated  by  Tante  herself.  In  Italian  her 
progress  was  more  slow.  Her  companion,  in  the  class  of 
two,  was  a  beautiful  dark-eyed  Southern  girl,  who  read 
musically,  but  seldom  deigned  to  open  her  grammar. 
The  forlorn,  soiled  old  exile  to  whom,  with  unconscious 
irony,  the  bath-room  had  been  assigned  for  recitations 
in  the  crowded  house,  regarded  this  pupil  with  mixed  ad 
miration  and  despair.  Her  remarks  on  Mary  Stuart,  rep 
resented  by  Alfieri,  were  nicely  calculated  to  rouse  him 
to  patriotic  fury,  and  then,  when  the  old  man  burst  forth 
in  a  torrent  of  excited  words,  she  would  raise  her  soft 
eyes  in  surprise,  and  inquire  if  he  was  ill.  The  two  girls 
sat  on  the  bath-tub,  which  was  decorously  covered  over 
and  cushioned ;  the  exile  had  a  chair  for  dignity's  sake. 
Above,  in  a  corresponding  room,  a  screen  was  drawn 
round  the  tub,  and  a  piano  placed  against  it.  Here,  all 
day  long,  another  exile,  a  German  music-master,  with  lit 
tle  gold  rings  in  his  ears,  gave  piano  lessons,  and  Anne 
was  one  of  his  pupils.  To  Signor  Belzini,  the  teacher  of 
vocal  music,  the  drawing-room  itself  was  assigned.  He 
was  a  prosperous  and  smiling  Italian,  who  had  a  habit 
of  bringing  pieces  of  pink  cream  candy  with  him,  and  ar 
ranging  them  in  a  row  on  thje  piano  for  his  own  refresh 
ment  after  each  song.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of  per- 


156  ANNE. 

fume  and  mystery  about  Belzini.  It  was  whispered  that 
he  knew  the  leading  opera-singers,  even  taking  supper 
with  them  sometimes  after  the  opera.  The  pupils  ex 
hausted  their  imaginations  in  picturing  to  each  other  the 
probable  poetry  and  romance  of  these  occasions. 

Belzini  was  a  musical  trick-master ;  but  he  was  not  ig 
norant.  When  Anne  came  to  take  her  first  lesson,  he 
smiled  effusively,  as  usual,  took  a  piece  of  candy,  and, 
while  enjoying  it,  asked  if  she  could  read  notes,  and  gave 
her  the  "Drinking  Song"  from  Lucrezia  Borgia  as  a 
trial.  Anne  sang  it  correctly  without  accompaniment, 
but  slowly  and  solemnly  as  a  dead  march.  It  is  probable 
that  "II  Segreto"  never  heard  itself  so  sung  before  or 
since.  Belzini  was  walking  up  and  down  with  his  plump 
hands  behind  him. 

"You  have  never  heard  it  sung  ?"  he  said. 

"No,"  replied  Anne. 

"Sing  something  else,  then.  Something  you  like 
yourself." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Anne  sang  an  island  ballad 
in  the  voyageur  patois. 

"May  I  ask  who  has  taught  you,  mademoiselle ?" 

"  My  father, "  said  the  pupil,  with  a  slight  tremor  in 
her  voice. 

"He  must  be  a  cultivated  musician,  although  of  the 
German  school,"  said  Belzini,  seating  himself  at  the  piano 
and  running  his  white  fingers  over  the  keys.  "Try 
these  scales." 

It  was  soon  understood  that  "the  islander"  could  sing 
as  well  as  study.  Tolerance  was  therefore  accorded  to 
her.  But  not  much  more.  It  is  only  in  "books  for  the 
young"  that  poorly  clad  girls  are  found  leading  whole 
schools  by  the  mere  power  of  intellectual  or  moral  suprem- 
.acy.  The  emotional  type  of  boarding-school,  also,  is  sel 
dom  seen  in  cities ;  its  home  is  amid  the  dead  lethargy  of 
a  winter-bound  country  village. 

The  great  event  in  the  opening  of  Anne's  school  life  was 
her  first  opera.  Tante,  not  at  all  blinded  by  the  country 
garb  and  silence  of  the  new.  pupil,  had  written  her  name 
with  her  own  hand  upon  the  opera  list  for  the  winter. 


ANNE.  157 

without  consulting  Miss  Vanhorn,  who  would,  however, 
pay  for  it  in  the  end,  as  she  would  also  pay  for  the 
drawing  and  dancing  lessons  ordered  by  the  same  auto 
cratic  command.  For  it  was  one  of  Xante's  rules  to  cul 
tivate  every  talent  of  the  agreeable  and  decorative  order 
which  her  pupils  possessed;  she  bathed  them  as  the  pho 
tographer  bathes  his  shadowy  plate,  bringing  out  and 
"setting,"  as  it  were,  as  deeply  as  possible,  their  colors, 
whatever  they  happened  to  be.  Tante  always  attended 
the  opera  in  person.  Preceded  by  the  usher,  the  old 
Frenchwoman  glided  down  the  awkward  central  aisle  of 
the  Academy  of  Music,  with  her  inimitable  step,  clad  in 
her  narrow  satin  gown  and  all  her  laces,  well  aware 
that  tongues  in  every  direction  were  saying :  ' '  There  is 
Madame  Moreau  at  the  head  of  her  school,  as  usual. 
What  a  wonderful  old  lady  she  is !"  While  the  pupils 
were  filing  into  their  places,  Tajite  remained  in  the  aisle 
fanning  herself  majestically,  and  surveying  them  with  a 
benignant  smile.  When  all  were  seated,  with  a  grace 
ful  little  bend  she  glided  into  her  place  at  the  end,  the 
motion  of  sitting  down  and  the  bend  fused  into  one  in  a 
manner  known  only  to  herself. 

Anne's  strong  idealism,  shown  in  her  vivid  although 
mistaken  conceptions  of  Shakspeare's  women,  was  now 
turned  into  the  channel  of  opera  music.  After  hearing 
several  operas,  she  threw  herself  into  her  Italian  songs 
with  so  much  fervor  that  Belzini  sat  aghast;  this  was 
not  the  manner  in  which  demoiselles  of  private  life  should 
sing.  Tante,  passing  one  day  (by  the  merest  chance,  of 
course)  through  the  drawing-room  while  Anne  was  sing 
ing,  paused  a  moment  to  listen.  "Ma  fille,"she  said, 
when  the  song  was  ended,  tapping  Anne's  shoulder  affa 
bly,  "give  110  more  expression  to  the  Italian  words  you 
sing  than  to  the  syllables  of  your  scales.  Interpretations 
are  not  required."  The  old  Frenchwoman  always  put 
down  with  iron  hand  what  she  called  the  predominant 
tendency  toward  too  great  freedom"— sensationalism — in 
young  girls.  She  spent  her  life  in  a  constant  struggle 
with  the  American  "  jeune  fille." 

During  this  time  Rast  wrote  regularly;  but  his  letters, 


158  ANNE. 

not  being  authorized  by  Miss  Vanhorn,  Anne's  guardian, 
passed  first  through  the  hands  of  one  of  the  teachers,  and 
the  knowledge  of  this  inspection  naturally  dulled  the 
youth's  pen.  But  Anne's  letters  to  him  passed  the  same 
ordeal  without  change  in  word  or  in  spirit.  Miss  Lois  and 
Dr.  Gaston  wrote  once  a  week ;  Pere  Michaux  contented 
himself  with  postscripts  added  to  the  long,  badly  spelled, 
but  elaborately  worded  epistles  with  which  Mademoiselle 
Tita  favored  her  elder  sister.  It  was  evident  to  Anne 
that  Miss  Lois  was  having  a  severe  winter. 

The  second  event  in  Anne's  school  life  was  the  gaining 
of  a  friend. 

At  first  it  was  but  a  musical  companion.  Helen  Lor- 
rington  lived  not  far  from  the  school;  she  was  one  of 
Tante's  old  scholars,  and  this  Napoleon  of  teachers  espe 
cially  liked  this  pupil,  who  was  modelled  after  her  own 
heart.  Helen  held  what  may  be  called  a  woman's  most 
untrammelled  position  in  life,  namely,  that  of  a  young 
wridow,  protected  but  not  controlled,  rich,  beautiful,  and 
without  children.  She  was  also  heir  to  the  estate  of  an 
eccentric  grandfather,  who  detested  her,  yet  would  not  al 
low  his  money  to  go  to  any  collateral  branch.  He  de 
tested  her  because  her  father  was  a  Spaniard,  whose  dark 
eyes  had  so  reprehensibly  fascinated  his  little  Dutch 
daughter  that  she  had  unexpectedly  plucked  up  courage 
to  marry  in  spite  of  the  paternal  prohibition,  and  not 
only  that,  but  to  be  very  happy  also  during  the  short  por 
tion  of  life  allotted  to  her  afterward.  The  young  Spanish 
husband,  with  an  unaccountable  indifference  to  the  wealth 
for  which  he  was  supposed  to  have  plotted  so  persevering* 
ly,  was  pusillanimous  enough  to  die  soon  afterward,  leav 
ing  only  one  little  pale-faced  child,  a  puny  girl,  to  inherit 
the  money.  The  baby  Helen  had  never  possessed  the 
dimples  and  rose  tints  that  make  the  beauty  of  childhood; 
the  girl  Helen  had  not  the  rounded  curves  and  peach-like 
bloom  that  make  the  beauty  of  youth.  At  seventeen  she 
was  what  she  was  now;  therefore  at  seventeen  she  was 
old.  At  twenty-seven  she  was  what  she  was  then ;  there 
fore  at  twenty-seven  she  was  young. 

She  was  tall,  and  extremely,  marvellously  slender;  yet 


ANNE.  159 

her  bones  were  so  small  that  there  were  no  angles  visible 
in  all  her  graceful  length.  She  was  a  long  woman  ;  her 
arms  were  long,  her  throat  was  long,  her  eyes  and  face 
were  long.  Her  form,  slight  enough  for  a  spirit,  was  as 
natural  as  the  swaying  grasses  on  a  hill-side.  She  was  as 
flexible  as  a  ribbon.  Her  beauties  were  a  regally  poised  lit 
tle  head,  a  delicately  cut  profile,  and  ja  remarkable  length 
of  hair ;  her  peculiarities,  the  color  of  this  hair,  the  color 
of  her  skin,  and  the  narrowness  of  her  eyes.  The  hue  of 
her  hair  was  called  flaxen ;  'but  it  was  more  than  that — 
it  was  the  color  of  bleached  straw.  There  was  not  a 
trace  of  gold  in  it,  nor  did  it  ever  shine,  but  hung,  when 
unbound,  a  soft  even  mass  straight  down  below  the  knee. 
It  was  very  thick,  but  so  fine  that  it  was  manageable ;  it 
was  never  rough,  because  there  were  no  short  locks.  The 
complexion  which  accompanied  this  hair  was  white,  with 
an  uiider-tint  of  ivory.  There  are  skins  with  under-tints 
of  pink,  of  blue,  and  of  brown ;  but  this  was  different  in 
that  it  shaded  off  into  cream,  without  any  indication  of 
these  hues.  This  soft  ivory-color  gave  a  shade  of  fuller 
richness  to  the  slender  straw-haired  woman— an  effect  in 
creased  by  the  hue  of  the  eyes,  when  visible  under  the  long 
light  lashes.  For  Helen's  eyes  were  of  a  bright  dark  un 
expected  brown.  The  eyes  were  so  long  and  narrow, 
however,  that  generally  only  a  line  of  bright  brown  look 
ed  at  you  when  you  met  their  gaze.  Small  features, 
narrow  cheeks,  delicate  lips,  and  little  milk-white  teeth, 
like  a  child's,  completed  this  face  which  never  had  a  red 
tint,  even  the  lips  being  but  faintly  colored.  There  were 
many  men  who,  seeing  Helen  Lorrington  for  the  first 
time,  thought  her  exquisitely  beautiful ;  there  were  others 
who,  seeing  her  for  the  first  time,  thought  her  singular 
ly  ugly.  The  second  time,  there  was  never  a  question. 
Her  grandfather  called  her  an  albino;  but  he  was  nearly 
blind,  and  could  only  see  the  color  of  her  hair.  He  could 
not  see  the  strong  brown  light  of  her  eyes,  or  the  soft 
ivory  complexion,  which  never  changed  in  the  wind,  the 
heat,  or  the  cold. 

Mrs.  Lorrington  was  always  dressed  richly,  but  after  a 
fashion  of  her  own.     Instead  of  disguising  the  slender- 


160  ANNE. 

ness  of  her  form,  she  intensified  it ;  instead  of  contrasting 
hues,  she  often  wore  amber  tints  like  her  hair.  Amid  all 
her  silks,  jewels,  and  laces,  there  was  always  supreme  her 
own  personality,  which  reduced  her  costumes  to  what, 
after  all,  costumes  should  be,  merely  the  subordinate  cov 
erings  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

Helen  had  a  clear,  flute-like  voice,  with  few  low  notes, 
and  a  remarkably  high  range.  She  continued  her  lessons 
with  Belzini  whenever  she  was  in  the  city,  more  in  order 
that  he  might  transpose  her  songs  for  her  than  for  any 
instruction  he  could  now  bestow.  She  was  an  old  pupil 
of  his,  and  the  sentimental  Italian  adored  her;  this  ador 
ation,  however,  did  not  prevent  him  from  being  very 
comfortable  at  home  with  his  portly  wife.  One  morning 
Helen,  coming  in  for  a  moment  to  leave  a  new  song, 
found  Anne  at  the  piano  taking  her  lesson.  Belzini,  al 
ways  anxious  to  please  his  fair-haired  divinity,  motioned 
to  her  to  stay  and  listen.  Anne's  rich  voice  pleased  her 
ears ;  but  she  had  heard  rich  voices  before.  What  held 
her  attention  now  was  the  girl  herself.  For  although 
Helen  was  a  marvel  of  self-belief,  although  she  made  her 
own  peculiar  beauty  an  object  of  worship,  and  was  so  sat 
urated  with  knowledge  of  herself  that  she  could  not  take 
an  attitude  which  did  not  become  her,  she  yet  possessed 
a  comprehension  of  other  types  of  beauty,  and  had,  if  not 
an  admiration  for,  at  least  a  curiosity  about,  them.  In 
Anne  she  recognized  at  once  what  Tante  had  also  recog 
nized — unfolding  beauty  of  an  unfamiliar  type,  the  curves 
of  a  nobly  shaped  form  hidden  under  an  ugly  gown,  above 
the  round  white  throat  a  beautiful  head,  and  a  singular 
ly  young  face  shadowed  by  a  thoughtfulness  which  was 
very  grave  and  impersonal  when  compared  with  the 
usual  light,  self-centred  expressions  of  young  girls'  faces. 
At  once  Helen's  artistic  eye  had  Anne  before  her,  robed 
in  fit  attire ;  in  imagination  she  dressed  her  slowly  from 
head  to  foot  as  the  song  went  on,  and  was  considering 
the  question  of  jewels  when  the  music  ceased,  and  Belzini 
was  turning  toward  her. 

' '  I  hope  I  may  become  better  acquainted  with  this  rich 
voice,"  she  said,  coming  back  gracefully  to  the  present. 


ANNE.  161 

' '  May  I  introduce  myself  ?  I  should  like  to  try  a  duet 
with  you,  if  you  will  allow  me,  Miss — " 

" Douglas,"  said  Belzini;  "and  this,  mademoiselle,  is 
Mrs.  Lorrington." 

Such  was  the  beginning. 

In  addition  to  Helen's  fancy  for  Anne's  fair  grave  face, 
the  young  girl's  voice  proved  a  firmer  support  for  her 
high  soprano  than  it  had  ever  obtained.  Her  own  circle 
in  society  and  the  music  classes  had  been  searched  in 
vain  more  than  once.  For  she  needed  a  soprano,  not 
a  contralto.  And  as  soprani  are  particularly  human, 
there  had  never  been  any  lasting  co-operation.  Anne, 
however,  cheerfully  sang  whatever  Belzini  put  before 
her,  remained  admiringly  silent  while  Helen  executed 
the  rapid  runs  and  trills  with  which  she  always  decora 
ted  her  part,  and  then,  when  the  mezzo  was  needed  again, 
gave  her  full  voice  willingly,  supporting  the  other  as 
the  notes  of  an  organ  meet  and  support  a  flute  after  its 
solo. 

Belzini  was  in  ecstasies;  he  sat  up  all  night  to  copy 
music  for  them.  He  said,  anxiously,  to  Helen:  "And 
the  young  girl  ?  You  like  her,  do  you  not  ?  Such  a 
voice  for  you!1' 

"But  I  can  not  exactly  buy  young  girls,  can  I  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Lorrmgton,  smiling. 

More  and  more,  however,  each  day  she  liked  "the 
young  girl"  for  herself  alone.  She  was  an  original,  of 
course ;  almost  an  aboriginal ;  for  she  told  the  truth  ex 
actly  upon  all  occasions,  appropriate  or  inappropriate,  and 
she  had  convictions.  She  was  not  aware,  apparently,  of 
the  old-fashioned  and  cumbrous  appearance  of  these  last- 
named  articles  of  mental  furniture.  But  the  real  secret 
of  Helen's  liking  lay  in  the  fact  that  Anne  admired  her, 
and  was  at  the  same  time  neither  envious  nor  jealous, 
and  from  her  youth  she  had  been  troubled  by  the  sure 
development  of  these  two  feelings,  sooner  or  later,  in  all 
her  girl  companions.  In  truth,  Helen's  lot  ivas  enviable ; 
and  also,  whether  consciously  or  unconsciously,  she  had 
a  skill  in  provoking  jealousy.  She  was  the  spoiled  child 
of  fortune.  It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  those  of 

11 


162  ANNE. 

her  own  sex  and  age  seldom  enjoyed  being  with  her: 
the  contrast  was  too  great.  Helen  was,  besides,  the  very 
queen  of  Whim. 

The  queen  of  Whim !  By  nature ;  which  means  that  she 
had  a  highly  developed  imagination.  By  the  life  she  had 
led,  having  never,  save  for  the  six  short  months  of  her  hus 
band's  adoring  rule,  been  under  the  control,  or  even  advice, 
of  any  man.  For  whim  can  be  thoroughly  developed  only 
in  feminine  households :  it  is  essentially  feminine.  And 
Helen  had  been  brought  up  by  a  maiden  aunt,  who  lived 
alone.  A  man,  however  mild,  demands  in  a  home  at  least 
a  pretense  of  fixed  hours  and  regularity ;  only  a  house 
hold  of  women  is  capable  of  no  regularity  at  all,  of  chan 
ging  the  serious  dinner  hour  capriciously,  and  even  giving 
up  dinner  altogether.  Only  a  household  of  women  has 
sudden  inspirations  as  to  journeys  and  departures  within 
the  hour ;  brings  forth  sudden  ideas  as  to  changes  of  route 
while  actually  on  the  way,  and  a  going  southward  in 
stead  of  westward,  with  a  total  indifference  to  supper. 
Helen's  present  whim  was  Anne. 

"  I  want  you  to  spend  part  of  the  holidays  with  me," 
she  said,  a  few  days  before  Christmas.  ' '  Come  on  Mon 
day,  and  stay  over  New-Year's  Day." 

"  Oh,  I  can  not,"  said  Anne,  startled. 

' '  Why  not  ?  Tante  will  consent  if  I  ask  her ;  she  al 
ways  does.  Do  you  love  this  crowded  house  so  much  that 
you  can  not  leave  it  ?" 

"  It  is  not  that.     But— 

' '  But  you  are  shy.  But  Miss  Vanhom  might  not  like 
it.  You  do  not  know  Aunt  Margaretta.  You  have  no 
silk  gown.  Now  let  me  talk.  I  will  write  to  Miss  Van- 
horn.  Aunt  Margaretta  is  as  gentle  as  a  dove.  I  am 
bold  enough  for  two.  And  the  silk  dress  shall  come  from 
me." 

"I  could  not  take  that,  Mrs.  Lorrington." 

' '  Because  you  are  proud  ?" 

' '  No ;  but  because  I  would  rather  not.  It  would  be 
too  great  an  obligation." 

"You  repay  me  by  your  voice  a  thousandfold,  Anne. 
I  have  never  had  the  right  voice  for  mine  until  now; 


ANNE.  163 

and  therefore  the  obligation  is  on  my  side.  I  do  not 
speak  of  the  pleasure  your  visit  will  give  me,  because  I 
hope  to  make  that  mutual.  But  say  110  more.  I  intend 
to  have  my  way." 

And  she  had  her  way.  "I  have  always  detested  Miss 
Vanhorn,  with  her  caraway  seeds,  and  her  malice,"  she 
explained  to  Tante.  "Much  as  I  like  Anne  for  herself 
alone,  it  will  be  delicious  also  to  annoy  the  old  dragon  by 
bringing  into  notice  this  unknown  niece  whom  she  is 
hiding  here  so  carefully.  Now  confess,  Tante,  that  it 
will  be  delicious." 

Tante  shook  her  head  reprovingly.  But  she  herself 
was  in  her  heart  by  no  means  fond  of  Miss  Vanhorn; 
she  had  had  more  than  one  battle  royal  with  that  ven 
erable  Knickerbocker,  which  had  tested  even  her  cele 
brated  suavity. 

Helen's  note  was  as  follows : 

"DEAR  Miss  VANHORN,— I  very  much  wish  to  persuade 
your  charming  niece,  Miss  Douglas,  to  spend  a  portion 
of  the  holidays  with  me.  Her  voice  is  marvellously 
sweet,  and  Aunt  Margaretta  is  most  anxious  to  hear  it ; 
while  /  am  desirous  to  have  her  in  my  own  home,  even 
if  but  for  a  few  days,  in  order  that  I  may  learn  more  of 
her  truly  admirable  qualities,  which  she  inherits,  no 
doubt,  from  your  family. 

' '  I  trust  you  will  acid  your  consent  to  Tante's,  already 
willingly  bestowed,  and  make  me  thereby  still  more  your 
obliged  friend, 

"HELEN  KOOSBROECK  LORRINGTON." 

The  obliged  friend  had  the  following  answer : 

"  Miss  Vanhorn  presents  her  compliments  to  Mrs.  Lor- 
rington,  with  thanks  for  her  note,  which,  however,  was 
an  unnecessary  attention,  Miss  Vanhorn  claiming  no  au 
thority  over  the  movements  of  Anne  Douglas  (whose  re 
lationship  to  her  is  remote),  beyond  a  due  respect  for  the 
rules  of  the  institution  where  she  has  been  placed.  Miss 
Vanhorn  is  gratified  to  learn  that  Miss  Douglas's  voice  is 


164  ANNE. 

already  of  practical  use  to  her,  and  has  the  honor  of  re 
maining  Mrs.  Lorrington's  obliged  and  humble  servant. 
"MADISON  SQUARE,  Tuesday" 

Tears  sprang  to  Anne's  eyes  when  Helen  showed  her  this 
note. 

' '  Why  do  you  care  ?  She  was  always  a  dragon ;  for 
get  her.  Now,  Anne,  remember  that  it  is  all  understood, 
and  the  carriage  will  come  for  you  on  Monday."  Then, 
seeing  the  face  before  her  still  irresolute,  she  added:  " If 
you  are  to  have  pupils,  some  of  them  may  be  like  me. 
You  ought,  therefore,  to  learn  how  to  manage  me,  you 
know." 

' '  You  are  right, "  said  Anne,  seriously.  "  It  is  strange 
how  little  confidence  I  feel." 

Helen,  looking  at  her  as  she  stood  there  in  her  island 
gown,  coarse  shoes,  and  old-fashioned  collar,  did  not 
think  it  strange  at  all,  but  wondered,  as  she  had  wonder 
ed  a  hundred  times  before,  why  it  was  that  this  girl  did 
not  think  of  herself  and  her  own  appearance.  ' '  And  you 
must  let  me  have  my  way,  too,  about  something  for  you 
to  wear,"  she  added. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  Helen.  It  can  not  be  oth 
erwise,  I  suppose,  if  I  go  to  you.  But — I  hope  the  time 
will  come  when  I  can  do  something  for  you." 

' '  Never  fear ;  it  will.  I  feel  it  instinctively.  You  will 
either  save  my  life  or  take  it — one  or  the  other;  but  I  am 
not  sure  which." 

Monday  came;  and  after  her  lonely  Christmas,  Anne 
was  glad  to  step  into  Miss  Teller's  carriage,  and  be  taken 
to  the  home  on  the  Avenue.  The  cordial  welcome  she 
received  there  was  delightful  to  her,  the  luxury  novel. 
She  enjoyed  everything  simply  and  sincerely,  from  the 
late  breakfast  in  the  small  warm  breakfast-room,  from 
which  the  raw  light  of  the  winter  morning  was  carefully 
excluded,  to  the  chat  with  Helen  over  the  dressing-room 
fire  late  at  night,  when  all  the  house  was  still.  Hel 
en's  aunt.  Miss  Teller,  was  a  thin,  light-eyed  person  of 
fifty -five  years  of  age.  Richly  dressed,  very  tall,  with  a 
back  as  immovable  and  erect  as  though  made  of  steel, 


ANNE.  165 

and  a  tower  of  blonde  lace  on  her  head,  she  was  a  per 
sonage  of  imposing  aspect,  but  in  reality  as  mild  as  a 
sheep. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  she  said,  when  Anne  noticed  the  tint 
ed  light  in  the  breakfast-room ;  "I  take  great  care  about 
light,  which  I  consider  an  influence  in  our  households 
too  much  neglected.  The  hideous  white  glare  in  most 
American  breakfast-rooms  on  snowy  winter  mornings  has 
often  made  me  shudder  when  I  have  been  visiting  my 
friends ;  only  the  extremely  vigorous  can  enjoy  this  sharp 
contact  with  the  new  day.  Then  the  aesthetic  effect: 
children  are  always  homely  when  the  teeth  are  changing 
and  the  shoulder-blades  prominent ;  and  who  wishes  to  see, 
besides,  each  freckle  and  imperfection  upon  the  counte 
nances  of  those  he  loves  ?  I  have  observed,  too,  that  even 
morning  prayer,  as  a  family  observance,  fails  to  counter 
act  the  influence  of  this  painful  light.  For  if  as  you 
kneel  you  cover  your  face  with  your  hands,  the  glare  will 
be  doubly  unbearable  when  you  remove  them;  and  if 
you  do  not  cover  your  brow,  you  will  inevitably  blink. 
Those  who  do  not  close  their  eyes  at  all  are  the  most  com 
fortable,  but  I  trust  we  would  all  prefer  to  suffer  rather 
than  be  guilty  of  such  irreverence." 

"Now  that  is  Aunt  Gretta  exactly,"  said  Helen,  as 
Miss  Teller  left  the  room.  ' '  When  you  are  once  accus 
tomed  to  her  height  and  blonde  caps,  you  will  find  her 
soft  as  a  down  coverlet." 

Here  Miss  Teller  returned.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  anx 
iously,  addressing  Anne,  "  as  to  soap  for  the  hands — what 
kind  do  you  prefer  ?" 

"Anne's  hands  are  beautiful,  and  she  will  have  the 
white  soap  in  the  second  box  on  the  first  shelf  of  the  store 
room — the  rose;  not  the  heliotrope,  which  is  mine,"  said 
Helen,  taking  one  of  the  young  girl's  hands,  and  spread 
ing  out  the  firm  taper  fingers.  ' '  See  her  wrists !  Now 
my  wrists  are  small  too,  but  then  there  is  nothing  but 
wrist  all  the  way  up. " 

"My  dear,  your  arms  have  been  much  admired,"  said 
Miss  Margaretta,  with  a  shade  of  bewilderment  in  her 
voice. 


166  ANNE. 

"Yes,  because  I  choose  they  shall  be.  But  when  I 
spoke  of  Anne's  hands,  I  spoke  artistically,  aunt." 

"  Do  you  expect  Mr.  Blum  to-day?1'  said  Miss  Teller. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Helen,  smiling.  "Mr.  Blum,  Anne,  is 
a  poor  artist  whom  AuntGretta  is  cruel  enough  to  dislike. " 

"Not  on  account  of  his  poverty,"  said  Miss  Margaretta, 

but  on  account  of  my  having  half-brothers,  with  large 
families,  all  with  weak  lungs,  taking  cold,  I  may  say,  at 
a  breath — a  mere  breath;  and  Mr.  Blum  insists  upon 
coming  here  without  overshoes  when  there  has  been  a 
thaw,  and  sitting  all  the  evening  in  wet  boots,  which 
naturally  makes  me  think  of  my  brothers'  weak  families, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  danger  to  himself." 

"Well,  Mr.  Blum  is  not  coming.  But  Mr.  Heathcote 
is." 

"Ah." 

"And  Mr.  Dexter  may."  . 

"  I  am  always  glad  to  see  Mr.  Dexter,"  said  Aunt  Mar 
garetta. 

Mr.  Heathcote  did  not  come ;  Mr.  Dexter  did.  But 
Anne  was  driving  with  Miss  Teller,  and  missed  the 
visit. 

"A  remarkable  man,"  said  the  elder  lady,  as  they  sat 
at  the  dinner  table  in  the  soft  radiance  of  wax  lights. 

"You  mean  Mr.  Blum?"  said  Helen.  "This  straw- 
colored  jelly  exactly  matches  me,  Anne." 

"I  "mean  Mr.  Dexter,"  said  Miss  Teller,  nodding  her 
head  impressively.  "Sent  through  college  by  the  boun 
ty  of  a  relative  (who  died  immediately  afterward,  in  the 
most  reprehensible  way,  leaving  him  absolutely  nothing), 
Gregory  Dexter,  at  thirty-eight,  is  to-day  a  man  of  mod 
ern  and  distinct  importance.  Handsome — you  do  not 
contradict  me  there,  Helen  ?" 

"No,  aunt." 

"Handsome,"  repeated  Miss  Teller,  triumphantly, 
"successful,  moral,  kind-hearted,  and  rich — what  would 
you  have  more  ?  I  ask  you,  Miss  Douglas,  what  would 
you  have  more  ?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Helen.  "Anne  has  confided  to  ma— 
nothing.  Long  live  Gregory  Dexter!  And  I  feel  sure, 


ANNE.  167 

too,  that  he  will  outlive  us  all.  I  shall  go  first.  You 
will  see.  I  always  wanted  to  be  first  in  everything — 
even  the  grave." 

"My  dear!"  said  Miss  Margaretta. 

"Well,  aunt,  now  would  you  like  to  be  last?  Think 
how  lonely  you  would  be.  Besides,  all  the  best  places 
would  be  taken,"  said  Helen,  in  business-like  tones,  tak 
ing  a  spray  of  heliotrope  from  the  vase  before  her. 

New- Year's  Day  was,  in  the  eyes  of  Margaretta  Teller, 
a  solemn  festival ;  thought  was  given  to  it  in  June,  pre 
paration  for  it  began  in  September.  Many  a  call  was 
made  at  the  house  on  that  day  which  neither  Miss  Marga 
retta,  nor  her  niece,  Mrs.  Lorrington,  attracted,  but  rather 
the  old-time  dishes  and  the  old-time  punch  on  their  din 
ing-room  table.  Old  men  with  gouty  feet,  amateur  anti 
quarians  of  mild  but  obstinate  aspect,  to  whom  Helen  was 
"  a  slip  of  a  girl,"  and  Miss  Margaretta  still  too  youthful 
a  person  to  be  of  much  interest,  called  regularly  on  the 
old  Dutch  holiday,  and  tasted  this  New- Year's  punch. 
They  cherished  the  idea  that  they  were  thus  maintaining 
the  "solid  old  customs,"  and  they  spoke  to  each  other  in 
moist,  husky  under-tones  when  they  met  in  the  hall,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Ah,  ah !  you  here  ?  That's  right — that's 
right.  A  barrier,  sir — a  barrier  against  modern  innova 
tion  !" 

Helen  had  several  friends  besides  Anne  to  assist  her  in 
receiving,  and  the  young  island  girl  remained,  therefore, 
more  or  less  unnoticed,  owing  to  her  lack  of  the  ready, 
graceful  smiles  and  phrases  which  are  the  current  coin 
of  New- Year's  Day.  She  passed  rapidly  through  the  dif 
ferent  phases  of  timidity,  bewilderment,  and  fatigue ;  and 
then,  when  more  accustomed  to  the  scene,  she  regained 
her  composure,  and  even  began  to  feel  amused.  She 
ceased  hiding  behind  the  others;  she  learned  to  repeat 
the  same  answers  to  the  same  questions  without  caring 
for  their  inanity;  she  gave  up  trying  to  distinguish 
names,  and  (like  the  others)  massed  all  callers  into  a 
constantly  arriving  repetition  of  the  same  person,  who 
was  to  be  treated  with  a  cordiality  as  impersonal  as  it  was 
glittering.  She  tried  to  select  Mr.  Dexter,  and  at  length 


168  ANNE. 

decided  that  he  was  a  certain  person  standing  near  Helen 
— a  man  with  brown  hair  and  eyes ;  but  she  was  not  sure, 
and  Helen's  manner  betrayed  nothing*. 

The  fatiguing  day  was  over  at  last,  and  then  followed 
an  hour  or  two  of  comparative  quiet ;  the  few  familiar 
guests  who  remained  were  glad  to  sink  down  in  easy- 
chairs,  and  enjoy  connected  sentences  again.  The  faces 
of  the  ladies  showed  fine  lines  extending  from  the  nostril 
to  the  chin ;  the  muscles  that  had  smiled  so  much  were 
weary. 

And  now  Anne  discovered  Gregory  Dexter ;  and  he 
was  not  t^ie  person  she  had  selected.  Mr.  Dexter  was  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  an  appearance  of  per 
sistent  vigor  in  his  bearing,  and  a  look  of  determination 
in  his  strong,  squarely  cut  jaw  and  chin.  His  face  was 
rather  short,  with  good  features  and  clear  gray  eyes, 
which  met  the  gazer  calmly;  and  there  was  about  him 
that  air  of  self-reliance  which  does  not  irritate  in  a  large 
strong  man,  any  more  than  imperiousness  in  a  beautiful 
woman. 

The  person  with  brown  eyes  proved  to  be  Mr.  Heath- 
cote.  He  seemed  indolent,  and  contributed  but  few 
words  to  the  general  treasury  of  conversation. 

Mr.  Blum  was  present  also;  but  on  this  occasion  he 
wore  the  peculiarly  new,  shining,  patent-leather  boots 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  on  festal  occasions, 
and  Miss  Teller's  anxieties  were  quiescent.  Helen  liked 
artists ;  she  said  that  their  ways  were  a  ' '  proud  assertion 
that  a  ray  of  beauty  outvalued  all  the  mere  utilities  of  the 
world." 

"Are  bad  boots  rays  of  beauty  ?"  inquired  Miss  Marga- 
retta. 

' '  Yes.  That  is,  a  man  whose  soul  is  uplifted  by  art 
may  not  always  remember  his  boots ;  to  himself,  no  doubt, 
his  feet  seem  winged." 

"Very  far  from  winged  are  Blum's  feet,"  responded 
Miss  Margaretta,  shaking  her  head  gravely.  "Very, 
very  far." 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  almost  all  the  guests  had  de 
parted,  Helen  seemed  seized  with  a  sudden  determination 


ANNE.  169 

to  bring  Anne  into  prominence.     Mr.  Dexter  still  linger 
ed,  and  the  artist.      Also  Ward  Heathcote. 

' '  Anne,  will  you  sing  now  ?  First  with  me,  then 
alone  ?"  she  said,  going  to  the  piano. 

A  bright  flush  rose  in  Anne's  face ;  the  prominent  blue 
eyes  of  the  German  artist  were  fixed  upon  her;  Gregory 
Dexter  had  turned  toward  her  with  his  usual  prompt  at 
tention.  Even  the  indolent  Heathcote  looked  up  as 
Helen  spoke.  But  having  once  decided  to  do  a  thing, 
Anne  knew  no  way  save  to  do  it;  having  accepted  Hel 
en's  generous  kindness,  she  must  now  do  what  Helen  ask 
ed  in  return.  She  rose  in  silence,  and  crossed  the  bright 
ly  lighted  room  on  her  way  to  the  piano.  Few  women 
walk  well ;  by  well,  is  meant  naturally.  Helen  was  grace 
ful  ;  she  had  the  lithe  shape  and  long  step  which  give  a 
peculiar  swaying  grace,  like  that  of  elm  branches.  Yet 
Helen's  walk  belonged  to  the  drawing-room,  or  at  best 
the  city  pavement ;  one  could  not  imagine  her  on  a  coun 
try  road.  Anne's  gait  was  different.  As  she  crossed  the 
room  alone,  it  drew  upon  her  for  the  first  time  the  full  at 
tention  of  the  three  gentlemen  who  were  present.  Blum 
stared  gravely.  Dexter's  eyes  moved  up  to  her  face,  as 
if  he  saw  it  now  with  new  interest.  Heathcote  leaned 
back  on  the  sofa  with  an  amused  expression,  glancing 
from  Anne  to  Helen,  as  if  saying,  "I  understand." 

Anne  wore  one  of  Helen's  gifts,  a  soft  silk  of  pale  gray, 
in  deference  to  her  mourning  garb ;  the  dress  was  high 
over  the  shoulders,  but  cut  down  squarely  in  front  and 
behind,  according  to  a  fashion  of  the  day.  The  sleeves 
came  to  the  elbow  only ;  the  long  skirt  was  severely  plain. 
They  had  taken  off  their  gloves,  and  the  girl's  beautiful 
arms  were  conspicuous,  as  well  as  her  round,  full,  white 
throat. 

The  American  Venus  is  thin. 

American  girls  are  slight;  they  have  visible  collar 
bones  and  elbows.*  When  they  pass  into  the  fullness  of 
womanhood  (if  they  pass  at  all),  it  is  suddenly,  leaving 
no  time  for  the  beautiful  pure  virginal  outlines  which 
made  Anne  Douglas  an  exception  to  her  kind.  Anne's 
walk  was  entirely  natural,  her  poise  natural ;  yet  so  per- 


170  ANNE. 

feet  were  her  proportions  that  even  Tante,  artificial  and 
French  as  she  was.  refrained  from  the  suggestions  and 
directions  as  to  step  and  bearing  which  encircled  the  oth 
er  pupils  like  an  atmosphere. 

The  young  girl's  hair  had  been  arranged  by  Helen's 
maid,  under  Helen's  own  direction,  in  a  plain  Greek  knot, 
leaving  the  shape  of  the  head,  and  the  small  ear,  exposed ; 
and  as  she  stood  by  the  piano,  waiting,  she  looked  (as  Hel 
en  had  intended  her  to  look)  like  some  young  creature 
from  an  earlier  world,  startled  and  shy,  yet  too  proud 
to  run  away. 

They  sang  together ;  and  in  singing  Anne  recovered  her 
self-possession.  Then  Helen  asked  her  to  sing  without 
accompaniment  a  little  island  ballad  which  was  one  of  her 
favorites,  and  leading  her  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  left 
her  there  alone.  Poor  Anne  !  But,  moved  by  the  one 
desire  of  pleasing  Helen,  she  clasped  her  hands  in  simple 
child-like  fashion,  and  began  to  sing,  her  eyes  raised 
slightly  so  as  to  look  above  the  faces  of  her  audience. 
It  was  an  old-fashioned  ballad  or  chanson,  in  the  patois  of 
the  voyageurs,  with  a  refrain  in  a  minor  key,  and  it  told 
of  the  vanishing  of  a  certain  petite  Marie,  and  the  sorrow 
ing  of  her  mother — a  common-place  theme  long  drawn 
out,  the  constantly  recurring  refrain,  at  first  monotonous, 
becoming  after  a  while  sweet  to  the  ear,  like  the  wash  of 
small  waves  on  a  smooth  beach.  But  it  was  the  ending 
upon  which  Helen  relied  for  her  effect.  Suddenly  the 
lament  of  the  long-winded  mother  ended,  the  time 
changed,  and  a  verse  followed  picturing  the  rapture  of 
the  lovers  as  they  fled  away  in  their  sharp-bowed  boat, 
wing  and  wing,  over  the  blue  lake.  Anne  sang  this  as 
though  inspired ;  she  forgot  her  audience,  and  sang  as 
she  had  always  sung  it  on  the  island  for  East  and  the 
children.  Her  voice  floated  through  the  house,  she 
shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  leaned  forward, 
gazing,  as  though  she  saw  the  boat  across  the  water, 
and  then  she  smiled,  as,  with  a  long  soft  note,  the  song 
ended. 

But  the  instant  it  was  over,  her  timidity  came  back 
with  double  force,  and  she  hastily  sought  refuge  beside 


ANNE.  171 

Helen,  her  voice  gone,  in  her  eyes  a  dangerous  nearness 
to  tears. 

There  was  now  an  outburst  of  compliments  from  Blum ; 
but  Helen  kindly  met  and  parried  them.  Mr.  Dexter 
began  a  few  well-chosen  sentences  of  praise ;  but  in  the 
midst  of  his  fluent  adjectives,  Anne  glanced  up  so  beseech 
ingly  that  he  caught  the  mist  in  her  eyes,  and  instantly 
ceased.  Nor  was  this  all ;  he  opened  a  discussion  with 
Miss  Teller,  dragging  in  Heathcote  also  (against  the  lat- 
ter's  will),  and  thus  secured  for  Anne  the  time  to  recover 
herself.  She  felt  this  quick  kindness,  and  was  grateful. 
She  decided  that  she  liked  him ;  and  she  wondered  wheth 
er  Helen  liked  him  also. 

The  next  morning  the  fairy-time  was  over ;  she  went 
back  to  school. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  There  are  three  sorts  of  egoists :  those  who  live  themselves  and  let 
others  live ;  those  who  live  themselves  and  don't  let  others  live ;  and 
those  who  neither  live  themselves  nor  let  others  live." 

"With  thoughts  and  feelings  very  simple  but  very  strong." — TOCR- 

GCENIEFF. 

THE  winter  passed.  The  new  pupil  studied  with  dili 
gence,  and  insisted  upon  learning  the  beginnings  of  piaiio- 
playing  so  thoroughly  that  the  resigned  little  German 
master  with  ear-rings  woke  up  and  began  to  ask  her  wheth 
er  she  could  not  go  through  a  course  of  ten  years  or  so, 
and  become  ' '  a  real  blayer,  not  like  American  blayers,  who 
vant  all  to  learn  de  same  biece,  and  blay  him  mit  de  loud 
pedal  down."  Sometimes  Helen  bore  her  away  to  spend 
a  Sunday ;  but  there  were  no  more  New- Year's  Days,  or 
occasions  for  the  gray  silk.  When  together  at  Miss 
Teller's,  the  two  sat  over  the  dressing-room  fire  at  night, 
talking  with  that  delightful  mixture  of  confidence  and 
sudden  little  bits  of  hypocrisy  in  which  women  delight, 
and  which  undress  seems  to  beget.  The  bits  of  hypocrisy, 
however,  were  all  Helen's. 

She  had  long  ago  gathered  from  Anne  her  whole  simple 
history;  she  was  familiar  with  the  Agency,  the  fort,  Miss 


172  ANNE. 

Lois,  Pere  Michaux,  Dr.  Gaston,  East,  Tita,  and  the  boys, 
even  old  Antoine  and  his  dogs,  Rene  and  Lebeau.  Anne, 
glad  to  have  a  listener,  had  poured  out  a  flood  of  details 
from  her  lonely  homesick  heart,  going  back  as  far  as  her 
own  lost  mother,  and  her  young  step-mother  Angelique. 
But  it  was  not  until  one  of  these  later  midnight  talks 
that  the  girl  had  spoken  of  her  own  betrothal.  Helen 
was  much  surprised — the  only  surprise  she  had  shown. 
"I  should  never  have  dreamed  it,  Crystal!"  she  exclaim 
ed.  "Never!"  (Crystal  was  her  name  for  Anne.) 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  are  so — young." 

* '  But  it  often  happens  at  my  age.  The  fort  ladies  were 
married  at  eighteen  and  nineteen,  and  my  own  dear 
mother  was  only  twenty." 

"You  adore  this  Rast,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  I  like  him." 

' '  Nonsense !     You  mean  that  you  adore  him. " 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Anne,  smiling.  "I  have  no 
ticed  that  our  use  of  words  is  different." 

' '  And  how  long  have  you  adored  him  ?" 

"All  my  life." 

The  little  sentence  came  forth  gravely  and  sincerely. 
Helen  surveyed  the  speaker  with  a  quizzical  expression  in 
her  narrow  brown  eyes.  ' '  No  one  '  adores'  all  one's  life, " 
she  answered.  Then,  as  Anne  did  not  take  up  the  chal 
lenge,  she  paused,  and,  after  surveying  her  companion  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  added,  ' '  There  is  no  time  fixed  as 
yet  for  this  marriage  ?" 

"No;  Rast  has  his  position  to  make  first.  And  I  my 
self  should  be  better  pleased  to  have  four  or  five  years  to 
give  to  the  children  before  we  are  married.  I  am  anx 
ious  to  educate  the  boys." 

' '  Bon !"  said  Helen.  ' '  All  will  yet  end  well,  Virginie. 
My  compliments  to  Paul.  It  is  a  pretty  island  pastoral, 
this  little  romance  of  yours;  you  have  my  good  wishes." 

The  island  pastoral  was  simple  indeed  compared  with 
the  net- work  of  fancies  and  manoeuvres  disclosed  by  Hel 
en.  Her  life  seemed  to  be  a  drama.  Her  personages 
were  masked  under  fictitious  names ;  the  Poet,  the  Haunt- 


ANNE.  175 

ed  Man,  the  Knight-errant,  the  Chanting  Tenor,  and  the 
Bishop,  all  figured  in  her  recitals,  to  which  Anne  listen 
ed  with  intense  interest.  Helen  was  a  brilliant  story-tell 
er.  She  could  give  the  salient  points  of  a  conversation, 
and  these  only.  She  colored  everything,  of  course,  ac 
cording  to  her  own  fancy ;  but  one  could  forgive  her  that 
for  her  skillful  avoidance  of  dull  details,  whose  stupid 
repetition,  simply  because  they  are  true,  is  a  habit  with 
which  many  good  people  are  afflicted. 

The  narrations,  of  course,  were  of  love  and  lovers:  it 
is  always  so  in  the  midnight  talks  of  women  over  the 
dying  fire.  Even  the  most  secluded  country  girl  will  on 
such  occasions  unroll  a  list  as  long  as  Leporello's.  The 
listener  may  know  it  is  fictitious,  and  the  narrator  may 
know  that  she  knows  it.  But  there  seems  to  be  a  fascina 
tion  in  the  telling  and  the  hearing  all  the  same. 

Helen  amused  herself  greatly  over  the  deep  interest 
Anne  took  in  her  stories;  to  do  her  justice,  they  were 
generally  true,  the  conversations  only  being  more  dra 
matic  than  the  reality  had  been.  This  was  not  Helen's 
fault ;  she  performed  her  own  part  brilliantly,  and  even 
went  over,  on  occasion,  and  helped  on  the  other  side.  But 
the  American  man  is  not  distinguished  for  conversation 
al  skill.  This  comes,  not  from  dullness  or  lack  of  ap 
preciation,  but  rather  from  overappreciation.  Without 
the  rock-like  slow  self-confidence  of  the  Englishman,  the 
Frenchman's  never-failing  wish  to  please,  or  the  idealiz 
ing  powers  of  the  German,  the  American,  with  a  quicker 
apprehension,  does  not  appear  so  well  in  conversation 
as  any  one  of  these  compeers.  He  takes  in  an  idea  so 
quickly  that  elaborate  comment  seems  to  him  hardly 
worth  while ;  and  thus  he  only  has  a  word  or  two  where 
an  Englishman  has  several  well-intentioned  sentences, 
a  Frenchman  an  epigram,  and  a  German  a  whole  cloud 
of  philosophical  quotations  and  comments.  But  it  is, 
more  than  all  else,  the  enormous  strength  which  ridicule 
as  an  influence  possesses  in  America  that  makes  him 
what  he  is;  he  shrinks  from  the  slightest  appearance  of 
"fine  talking,"  lest  the  ever-present  harpies  of  mirth 
should  swoop  down  and  feed  upon  his  vitals. 


174  ANNE. 

Helen's  friends,  therefore,  might  not  always  have  rec 
ognized  themselves  in  her  sparkling-  narratives,  as  far  as 
their  words  were  concerned ;  but  it  is  only  justice  to  them 
to  add  that  she  was  never  obliged  to  embellish  their  ac 
tions.  She  related  to  Anne  apart,  during  their  music 
lessons,  the  latest  events  in  a  whisper,  while  Belzini  gave 
two  minutes  to  cream  candy  and  rest ;  the  stories  became 
the  fairy  tales  of  the  school-girl's  quiet  life.  Through 
all,  she  found  her  interest  more  and  more  attracted  by 
"the  Bishop,"  who  seemed,  however,  to  be  anything  but 
an  ecclesiastical  personage. 

Miss  Vanhorn  had  been  filled  with  profound  astonish 
ment  and  annoyance  by  Helen's  note.  She  knew  Helen, 
and  she  knew  Miss  Teller :  what  could  they  want  of  Anne  ? 
After  due  delay,  she  came  in  her  carriage  to  find  out. 

Tante,  comprehending  her  motive,  sent  Anne  up  stairs 
to  attire  herself  in  the  second  dress  given  by  Helen — a 
plain  black  costume,  simply  but  becomingly  made,  and 
employed  the  delay  in  talking  to  her  visitor  mellifluously 
on  every  conceivable  subject  save  the  desired  one.  She 
treated  her  to  a  dissertation  011  intaglii,  to  an  argument 
or  two  on  architecture,  and  was  fervently  asking  her 
opinion  of  certain  recently  exhibited  relics  said  to  be 
by  Benvenuto  Cellini,  when  the  door  opened  and  Anne 
appeared. 

The  young  girl  greeted  her  grandaunt  with  the  same 
mixture  of  timidity  and  hope  which  she  had  shown  at 
their  first  interview.  But  Miss  Vanhorn's  face  stiffened 
into  rigidity  as  she  surveyed  her. 

"She  is  impressed  at  last,"  thought  the  old  French 
woman,  folding  her  hands  contentedly  and  leaning  back 
in  her  chair,  at  rest  (temporarily)  from  her  labors. 

But  if  impressed,  Miss  Vanhorn  had  no  intention  of 
betraying  her  impression  for  the  amusement  of  her  ancient 
enemy ;  she  told  Anne  curtly  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  that 
she  had  come  to  take  her  for  a  drive.  Once  safely  in  the 
carriage,  she  extracted  from  her  niece,  who  willingly  an 
swered,  every  detail  of  her  acquaintance  with  Helen,  and 
the  holiday  visit,  bestowing  with  her  own  eyes,  mean 
while,  a  close  scrutiny  upon  the  black  dress,  with  whose 


ANNE.  175 

texture  and  simplicity  even  her  angry  annoyance  could 
find  110  fault. 

"She  wants  to  get  something  out  of  you,  of  course," 
she  said,  abruptly,  when  the  story  was  told ;  ' '  Helen  Lor- 
riiigton  is  a  thoroughly  selfish  woman.  I  know  her  well. 
She  introduced  you,  I  suppose,  as  Miss  Vanhorn's  niece  ?" 

''Oh  no,  grandaunt.     She  has  no  such  thought." 

"What  do  you  know  of  her  thoughts  I  You  continue 
to  go  there  ?" 

"  Sometimes,  on  Sundays — when  she  asks  me." 

' '  Very  well.  But  you  are  not  to  go  again  when  com 
pany  is  expected ;  I  positively  forbid  it.  You  were  not 
brought  down  from  your  island  to  attend  evening  parties. 
You  hear  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps  you  are  planning  for  a  situation  here  at 
Moreau's  next  winter  ?"  said  the  old  woman,  after  a  pause, 
peering  at  Anne  suspiciously. 

" I  could  not  fill  it,  grandaunt;  I  could  only  teach  in  a 
country  school." 

'  At  Newport,  or  some  such  place,  then  ?" 
'  I  could  not  get  a  position  of  that  kind." 
'  Mrs.  Lorrington  could  help  you." 
'  I  have  not  asked  her  to  help  me." 
'I  thought  perhaps  she  had  some  such  idea  of  her 
own,"  continued  Miss  Vanhorn.      "You  can  probably 
prop  up  that  fife-like  voice  of  hers  in  a  way  she  likes ; 
and  besides,  you  are  a  good  foil  for  her,  with  your  big 
shoulders  and  bread-and-milk  face.     You  little  simpleton , 
don't  you  know  that  to  even  the  most  skillful  flirt  a  wo 
man  friend  of  some  kind  or  other  is  necessary  as  back 
ground  and  support  ?" 

"  No,  I  did  not  know  it,"  said  Anne,  in  a  disheartened 
voice. 

"What  a  friend  for  Helen  Lorrington!  No  wonder 
she  has  pounced  upon  you !  You  would  never  see  one 
of  her  manoeuvres,  although  done  within  an  inch  of  you. 
With  your  believing  eyes,  and  your  sincerity,  you  are 
worth  your  weight  in  silver  to  that  straw-faced  mermaid. 
But,  after  all,  I  do  not  interfere.  Let  her  only  obtain  a 


176  ANNE. 

good  situation  for  you  next  year,  and  pay  you  back  m 
more  useful  coin  than  fine  dresses,  and  I  make  no  objec 
tion." 

She  settled  herself  anew  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage, 
and  began  the  process  of  extracting  a  seed,  while  Anne, 
silent  and  dejected,  gazed  into  the  snow-covered  street, 
asking  herself  whether  Helen  and  all  this  world  were 
really  as  selfish  and  hypocritical  as  her  grandaunt  rep 
resented.  But  these  thoughts  soon  gave  way  to  the  pre 
dominant  one,  the  one  that  always  came  to  her  when 
with  Miss  Vanhorn — the  thought  of  her  mother. 

"During  the  summer,  do  you  still  live  in  the  old  coun 
try  house  on  the  Hudson,  grandaunt  ?" 

Miss  Vanhorn,  who  had  just  secured  a  seed,  dropped  it. 
* '  I  am  not  aware  that  my  old  country  house  is  anything 
to  you, "  she  answered,  tartly,  fitting  on  her  napping  glove- 
fingers,  and  beginning  a  second  search. 

A  sob  rose  in  Anne's  throat ;  but  she  quelled  it.  Her 
mother  had  spent  all  her  life,  up  to  the  time  of  her  mar 
riage,  at  that  old  river  homestead. 

Soon  after  this,  Madame  Moreau  sent  out  cards  of  invi 
tation  for  one  of  her  musical  evenings.  Miss  Vanhorn's 
card  was  accompanied  by  a  little  note  in  Xante's  own 
handwriting. 

* '  The  invitation  is  merely  a  compliment  which  I  give 
myself  the  pleasure  of  paying  to  a  distinguished  patron 
of  my  school"  (wrote  the  old  French  lady) .  ' '  There  will 
be  nothing  worthy  of  her  ear — a  simple  school-girls'  con 
cert,  in  which  Miss  Douglas  (who  will  have  the  kind  as 
sistance  of  Mrs.  Lorrington)  will  take  part.  I  can  not 
urge,  for  so  unimportant  an  affair,  the  personal  presence 
of  Miss  Vanhorn ;  but  I  beg  her  to  accept  the  inclosed  card 
as  a  respectful  remembrance  from 

"  HORTENSE-PAULINE  MOREAU." 

"That  will  bring  her,"  thought  Tante,  sealing  the  mis 
sive,  in  her  old-fashioned  way,  with  wax. 
She  was  right ;  Miss  Vanhorn  came. 
Anne  sang  first  alone.     Then  with  Helen. 


ANNE.  177 

"Isn't  that  Mrs.  Lorrington  ?"  said  a  voice  behind 
Miss  Vanhorn. 

' '  Yes.  My  Louise  tells  me  that  she  has  taken  up  this 
Miss  Douglas  enthusiastically — comes  here  to  sing  with 
her  almost  every  day. " 

"  Who  is  the  girl  ?" 

Miss  Vanhorn  prepared  an  especially  rigid  expression 
of  countenance  for  the  item  of  relationship  which  she 
supposed  would  follow.  But  nothing  came ;  Helen  was 
evidently  waiting  for  a  more  dramatic  occasion.  She 
felt  herself  respited;  yet  doubly  angry  and  apprehen 
sive. 

When  the  song  was  ended,  there  was  much  applause 
of  the  subdued  drawing-room  kind — applause,  however, 
plainly  intended  for  Helen  alone.  Singularly  enough, 
Miss  Vanhorn  resented  this.  "  If  I  should  take  Anne, 
dress  her  properly,  and  introduce  her  as  my  niece,  the 
Lorrington  would  be  nowhere,"  she  thought,  angrily. 
It  was  the  first  germ  of  the  idea. 

It  was  not  allowed  to  disappear.  It  grew  and  gather 
ed  strength  slowly,  as  Tante  and  Helen  intended  it  should ; 
the  two  friendly  conspirators  never  relaxed  for  a  day  their 
efforts  concerning  it.  Anne  remained  unconscious  of 
these  manoeuvres ;  but  the  old  grandaunt  was  annoyed, 
and  urged,  and  flattered,  and  menaced  forward  with  so 
much  skill  that  it  ended  in  her  proposing  to  Anne,  one 
day  in  the  early  spring,  that  she  should  come  and  spend 
the  summer  with  her,  the  children  on  the  island  to  be 
provided  for  meanwhile  by  an  allowance,  and  Anne  her 
self  to  have  a  second  winter  at  the  Moreau  school,  if  she 
wished  it,  so  that  she  might  be  fitted  for  a  higher  posi 
tion  than  otherwise  she  could  have  hoped  to  attain.  . 

"  Oh,  grandaunt!"  cried  the  girl,  taking  the  old  loose 
ly  gloved  hand  in  hers. 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  shaking  hands  and  grand- 
aunting  in  that  way, "  said  Miss  Vanhorn.  ' '  If  you  wish 
to  do  what  I  propose,  do  it ;  I  am  not  actuated  by  any 
new  affection  for  you.  You  will  take  four  days  to  con 
sider  ;  at  the  end  of  that  period,  you  may  send  me  your 
answer.  But,  with  your  acceptance,  I  shall  require  the 

12 


178-  ANNE. 

strictest  obedience.  And — no  allusion  whatever  to  your 
mother." 

"What  are  to  be  my  duties  ?"  asked  Anne,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Whatever  I  require,"  answered  the  old  woman, 
grimly. 

At  first  Anne  thought  of  consulting  Tante.  But  she 
had  a  strong  under-current  of  loyalty  in  her  nature,  and 
the  tie  of  blood  bound  her  to  her  grandaunt,  after  all :  she 
decided  to  consult  no  one  but  herself.  The  third  day 
was  Sunday.  In  the  twilight  she  sat  alone  on  her  nar 
row  bed,  by  the  window  of  the  dormitory,  thinking.  It 
was  a  boisterous  March  evening ;  the  wildest  month  of 
the  twelve  was  on  his  mad  errands  as  usual.  Her  thoughts 
were  on  the  island  with  the  children ;  would  it  not  be 
best  for  them  that  she  should  accept  the  offered  allow 
ance,  and  go  with  this  strange  grandaunt  of  hers,  endur 
ing  as  best  she  might  her  cold  severity  ?  Miss  Lois's 
income  was  small ;  the  allowance  would  make  the  little 
household  comfortable.  A  second  winter  in  New  York 
would  e"nable  her  to  take  a  higher  place  as  teacher,  and 
also  give  the  self-confidence  she  lacked.  Yes;  it  was 
best. 

But  a  great  and  overwhelming  loneliness  rose  in  her 
heart  at  the  thought  of  another  long  year's  delay  before 
she  could  be  with  those  she  loved.  East's  last  letter  was 
in  her  pocket ;  she  took  it  out,  and  held  it  in  her  hand  for 
comfort.  In  it  he  had  written  of  the  sure  success  of  his 
future;  and  Anne  believed  it  as  fully  as  he  did.  Her 
hand  grew  warmer  as  she  held  the  sheet,  and  as  she  re 
called  his  sanguine  words.  She  began  to  feel  courageous 
again.  Then  another  thought  came  to  her :  must  she  tell 
Miss  Vanhorn  of  her  engagement  ?  In  their  new  condi 
tions,  would  it  not  be  dishonest  to  keep  the  truth  back  ? 
"  I  do  not  see  that  it  can  be  of  any  interest  to  her,"  she 
said  to  herself.  ' '  Still,  I  prefer  to  tell  her. "  And  then, 
having  made  her  decision,  she  went  to  Tante. 

Tante  was  charmed  with  the  news  (and  with  the  suc 
cess  of  her  plan).  She  discoursed  upon  family  affection 
in  very  beautiful  language.  ' '  You  will  find  a  truo  well- 


ANNE.  179 

spring  of  love  in  the  heart  of  your  venerable  relative," 
she  remarked,  raising-  her  delicate  handkerchief,  like  the 
suggestion  of  a  happiness  that  reached  even  to  tears. 
' '  Long,  long  have  I  held  your  cherished  grandaunt  in  a 
warm  corner  of  my  memory  and  heart." 

This  was  true  as  regarded  the  time  and  warmth ;  only 
the  latter  was  of  a  somewhat  peppery  nature. 

The  next  morning  Helen  was  told  the  news.  She 
threw  back  her  head  in  comic  despair.  ' '  The  old  dragon 
has  taken  the  game  out  of  my  hands  at  last, "she  said, 
' '  and  ended  all  the  sport.  Excuse  the  title,  Anne.  But 
I  am  morally  certain  she  has  all  sorts  of  vinegarish  names 
for  me.  And  now — am  I  to  congratulate  you  upon  your 
new  home  ?" 

"It  is  more  a  matter  of  duty,  I  think,  than  congratu 
lation, "  said  Anne,  thoughtfully.  ' '  And  next,  I  must  tell 
her  of  my  engagement." 

"I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you,  Crystal." 

"Why?" 

"  She  would  rather  have  you  free." 

"  I  shall  be  free,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned." 

' '  Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that.  And  take  my  advice — do 
not  tell  her." 

Anne,  however,  paid  no  heed  to  this  admonition ;  some 
things  she  did  simply  because  she  could  not  help  doing 
them.  She  had  intended  to  make  her  little  confession 
immediately ;  but  Miss  Vanhorn  gave  her  no  opportunity. 
"That  is  enough  talking,"  she  said.  "I  have  neuralgia 
in  my  eyebrow." 

"But,  grandaunt,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

' '  Tell  me  nothing.  Don't  you  know  how  to  be  silent  ? 
Set  about  learning,  then.  When  I  have  neuralgia  in 
my  eyebrow,  you  are  to  speak  only  from  necessity ;  when 
I  have  it  in  the  eye  itself,  you  are  not  to  speak  at  all. 
Find  me  a  caraway,  and  don't  bungle." 

She  handed  her  velvet  bag  to  Anne,  and  refitted  the 
fingers  of  her  yellow  glove:  evidently  the  young  girl's 
duties  were  beginning. 

Several  days  passed,  but  the  neuralgia  always  pre 
vented  the  story.  At  last  the  eyebrow  was  released,  and 


180  ANNE. 

then  Anne  spoke.  "I  wish  to  tell  you,  grandaunt,  be 
fore  I  come  to  you,  that  I  am  engaged — engaged  to  be 
married." 

"  Who  cares  ?"  said  Miss  Vaiihorn.  "To  the  man  in 
the  moon,  I  suppose;  most  school-girls  are." 

"No,  to— 

"Draw  up  my  shawl,"  interrupted  the  old  woman. 
"7  do  not  care  who  it  is.  Why  do  you  keep  on  telling 
me?" 

"Because  I  did  not  wish  to  deceive  you." 

' '  Wait  till  I  ask  you  not  to  deceive  me.  Who  is  the 
boy?" 

"His  name  is  Erastus  Pronando,"  began  Anne; 
"and—" 

"Pronando?"  cried  Katharine  Vaiihorn,  in  a  loud, 
bewildered  voice — "  Pronando  ?  And  his  father's  name  ?" 

"John,  I  believe,"  said  Anne,  startled  by  the  change 
in  the  old  face.  "But  he  has  been  dead  many  years." 

Old  Katharine  rose ;  her  hands  trembled,  her  eyes  flash 
ed.  ' '  You  will  give  up  this  boy  at  once  and  forever,"  she 
said,  violently,  "or  my  compact  with  you  is  at  an  end." 

' '  How  can  I,  grandaunt  ?     I  have  promised — 

' '  I  believe  I  am  mistress  of  my  own  actions ;  and  in 
this  affair  I  will  have  no  sort  of  hesitation,"  continued 
the  old  woman,  taking  the  words  from  Anne,  and  tap 
ping  a  chair  back  angrily  with  her  hand.  ' '  Decide  now 
—this  moment.  Break  this  engagement,  and  my  agree 
ment  remains.  Refuse  to  break  it,  and  it  falls.  That  is 
all." 

"You  are  unjust  and  cruel,"  said  the  girl,  roused  by 
these  arbitrary  wrords. 

Miss  Vanhorn  waved  her  hand  for  silence. 

"If  you  will  let  me  tell  you,  aunt— 

The  old  woman  bounded  forward  suddenly,  as  if  on 
springs,  seized  her  niece  by  both  shoulders,  and  shook  her 
with  all  her  strength.  "There!"  she  said,  breathless. 
' '  Will  you  stop  talking  !  All  I  want  is  your  answer — 
yes,  or  no." 

The  drawing-room  of  Madame  Moreau  had  certainly 
never  witnessed  such  a  sight  as  this.  One  of  its  young 


ANNE.  181 

ladies  shaken — yes,  absolutely  shaken  like  a  refractory 
child !  The  very  chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  tremble,  and 
visibly  hope  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  salon  des  eleves, 
behind. 

Anne  was  more  startled  than  hurt  by  her  grandaunt's 
violence.  ' '  I  am  sorry  to  displease  you, "  she  said,  slowly 
and  very  gravely ;  ' '  but  I  can  not  break  my  engagement. " 

Without  a  word,  Miss  Vanhorn  drew  her  shawl  round 
her  shoulders,  pinned  it,  crossed  the  room,  opened  the 
door,  and  was  gone.  A  moment  later  her  carriage  roll 
ed  away,  and  Anne,  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  listened 
to  the  sound  of  the  wheels  growing  fainter  and  fainter, 
with  a  chilly  mixture  of  blank  surprise,  disappointment, 
and  grief  filling  her  heart.  "But  it  was  right  that.  I 
should  tell  her,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  went  up  stairs 
— "it  was  right." 

Right  and  wrong  always  presented  themselves  to  her 
as  black  and  white.  She  knew  no  shading.  She  was 
wrong ;  there  are  grays.  But,  so  far  in  her  life,  she  had 
not  been  taught  by  sad  experience  to  see  them.  4 '  It  wets 
right,"  she  repeated  to  Helen,  a  little  miserably,  but  still 
steadfastly. 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Lorrington. 
"You  have  lost  a  year's  fixed  income  for  those  children, 
and  a  second  winter  here  for  yourself ;  and  for  what  ? 
For  the  sake  of  telling  the  dragon  something  which  does 
not  concern  her,  and  which  she  did  not  wish  to  know." 

' '  But  it  was  true." 

"Are  we  to  go  out  with  trumpets  and  tell  everything 
we  know,  just  because  it  is  true  ?  Is  there  not  such  a 
thing  as  egotistical  truthfulness  ?" 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  said  Anne,  despairingly. 
"I  had  to  tell  her." 

"You  are  stubborn,  Crystal,  and  you  see  but  one  side 
of  a  question.  But  never  fear ;  we  will  circumvent  the 
dragon  yet.  I  wonder,  though,  why  she  was  so  wrought 
up  by  the  name  Pronando  ?  Perhaps  Aunt  Gretta  will 
know." 

Miss  Teller  did  not  know ;  but  one  of  the  husky-voiced 
old  gentlemen  who  kept  up  the  "barrier,  sir,  against 


182  ANNE. 

modern  innovation,"  remembered  the  particulars  (musty 
and  dusty  now)  of  Kate  Vanhorn's  engagement  to  one  of 
the  Proiiandos— the  wild  one  who  ran  away.  He  was 
younger  than  she  was,  a  handsome  fellow  (yes,  yes,  he 
remembered  it  all  now),  and  "she  was  terribly  cut  up 
about  it,  and  went  abroad  immediately. "  Abroad— great 
panacea  for  American  woes!  To  what  continent  can 
those  who  live  "abroad"  depart  when  trouble  seizes  them 
in  its  pitiless  claws  ? 

Time  is  not  so  all-erasing  as  we  think.  Old  Katharine 
Vanhorn,  at  seventy,  heard  from  the  young  lips  of  her 
grandiiiece  the  name  which  had  not  been  mentioned  in 
her  presence  for  nearly  half  a  century— the  name  which 
still  had  power  to  rouse  in  her  heart  the  old  bitter  feeling. 
For  John  Pronando  had  turned  from  her  to  an  unedu 
cated  common  girl — a  market-gardener's  daughter.  The 
proud  Kate  Vanhorn  resented  the  defection  instantly ;  she 
broke  the  bond  of  her  betrothal,  and  sailed  for  England 
before  Pronando  realized  that  she  was  offended.  This 
idyl  of  the  gardener's  daughter  was  but  one  of  his  passing 
amusements;  and  so  he  wrote  to  his  black-browed  god 
dess.  But  she  replied  that  if  he  sought  amusement  of 
that  kind  during  the  short  period  of  betrothal,  he  would 
seek  it  doubly  after  marriage,  and  then  it  would  not  be 
so  easy  to  sail  for  Europe.  She  considered  that  she  had 
had  an  escape.  Pronando,  handsome,  light-hearted,  and 
careless,  gave  up  his  offended  Juno  without  much  heart 
ache,  and  the  episode  of  Phyllis  being  by  this  time  fin 
ished,  he  strayed  back  to  his  Philadelphia  home,  to  em 
broil  himself  as  usual  with  his  family,  and,  later,  to  fol 
low  out  the  course  ordained  for  him  by  fate.  Kate  Van- 
horn  had  other  suitors ;  but  the  old  wound  never  healed. 

"Come  and  spend  the  summer  with  me, "said  Helen. 
"I  trust  I  am  as  agreeable  as  the  dragon." 

"  No  ;  I  must  stay  here.  Even  as  it  is,  she  is  doing  a 
great  deal  for  me;  I  have  no  real  claim  upon  her,"  re 
plied  Anne,  trying  not  to  give  way  to  the  loneliness  that 
oppressed  her. 

' '  Only  that  of  being  her  nearest  living  relative,  and 
natural  heir." 


ANNE.  183 

"I  have  not  considered  the  question  of  inheritance,'1 
replied  the  island  girl,  proudly. 

' '  I  know  you  have  not ;  yet  it  is  there.  Old  ladies, 
however,  instead  of  natural  heirs,  are  apt  to  prefer  un 
natural  ones— cold-blooded  Societies,  Organizations,  and 
the  endless  Heathen.  But  I  am  in  earnest  about  the  sum 
mer,  Crystal:  spend  it  with  me." 

"You  are  always  generous  to  me,"  said  Anne,  grate 
fully. 

' '  No ;  I  never  was  generous  in  my  life.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  be  generous.  But  this  is  the  way  it  is :  I  am  rich ; 
I  want  a  companion  ;  and  I  like  you.  Your  voice  sup 
ports  mine  perfectly,  and  is  not  in  the  least  too  loud— a 
thing  I  detest.  Besides,  we  look  .well  together.  You 
are  an  excellent  background  for  me ;  you  make  me  loo'k 
poetic ;  whereas  most  women  make  me  look  like  a  car 
icature  of  myself— of  what  I  really  am.  As  though  a 
straw-bug  should  go  out  walking  with  a  very  attenuated 
grasshopper.  Now  if  the  straw-bug  went  out  always  with 
a  plump  young  toad  or  wood-turtle,  people  might  be  found 
to  admire  even  his  hair-like  fineness  of  limb  and  yellow 
transparency,  by  force,  you  know,  of  contrast." 

Anne  laughed ;  but  there  was  also  a  slight  change  of 
expression  in  her  face. 

"I  can  read  you,  Crystal,"  said  Helen,  laughing  in  her 
turn.  "Old  Katharine  has  already  told  you  all  those 
things—sweet  old  lady!  She  understands  me  so  well! 
Come;  call  it  selfishness  or  generosity,  as  you  please; 
but  accept." 

"It  is  generosity,  Helen;  which,  however,  I  must  de 
cline." 

' '  It  must  be  very  inconvenient  to  be  so  conscientious," 
said  Mrs.  Lorrington.  "But  mind,  I  do  not  give  it  up. 
What !  lose  so  good  a  listener  as  you  are  ?  To  whom, 
then,  can  I  confide  the  latest  particulars  respecting  the 
Poet,  the  Bishop,  the  Knight-errant,  and  the  Haunted 
Man  ?" 

UI  like  the  Bishop, "said  Anne,  smiling  back  at  her 
friend.  She  had  acquired  the  idea,  without  words,  that 
Helen  liked  him  also. 


184  ANNE. 

The  story  of  Miss  Vaiihorn's  change  was,  of  course, 
related  to  Tante :  Anne  had  great  confidence  both  in  the 
old  Frenchwoman's  kindness  of  heart  and  excellent  judg 
ment. 

Tante  listened,  asked  a  question  or  two,  and  then  said : 
u  Yes,  yes,  I  see.  For  the  present,  nothing  more  can  be 
done.  She  will  allow  you  to  finish  your  year  here,  and 
as  the  time  is  of  value  to  you,  you  shall  continue  your 
studies  through  the  vacation.  But  not  at  my  New 
Jersey  farm,  as  she  supposes;  at  a  better  place  than  that. 
You  shall  go  to  Pitre." 

"A  place,  Tante?" 

"No;  a  friend  of  mine,  and  a  woman." 

Mademoiselle  Jeanne- Arm  an  de  Pitre  was  not  so  old  as 
Tante  (Tante  had  friends  of  all  ages) ;  she  was  about  fifty, 
but  conveyed  the  impression  of  never  having  been  young. 
* '  She  is  an  excellent  teacher, "  continued  the  other  French 
woman,  "and  so  closely  avaricious  that  she  will  be  glad 
to  take  you  even  for  the  small  sum  you  will  pay.  She 
is  employed  in  a  Western  seminary  somewhere,  but  al 
ways  returns  to  this  little  house  of  hers  for  the  summer 
vacation.  Your  opportunity  for  study  with  her  will  be 
excellent ;  she  has  a  rage  for  study.  Write  and  tell  your 
grandaunt,  ma  fille,  what  I  have  decided." 

"  Ma  fille"  wrote;  but  Miss  Vanhorn  made  no  reply. 

Early  in  June,  accompanied  by  "monsieur,"  Anne 
started  011  her  little  journey.  The  German  music  master 
said  farewell  with  hearty  regret.  He  was  leaving  also ; 
he  should  not  be  with  Madame  Moreau  another  winter,  he 
said.  The  Italian  atmosphere  stifled  him,  and  the  very 
sight  of  Belziiii  made  him  "  dremble  vit  a  er-righteous  er- 
rage."  He  gave  Anne  his  address,  and  begged  that  she 
would  send  to  him  when  she  wanted  new  music ;  "music 
vort  someding."  Monsieur  Laurent,  Anne's  escort,  was 
a  nephew  of  Tante's,  a  fine-looking  middle-aged  French 
man,  who  taught  the  verbs  with  a  military  air.  But  it 
was  not  so  much  his  air  as  his  dining-room  which  gave 
him  importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  school.  The  "  salle  a 
manger  de  monsieur"  was  a  small  half-dark  apartment, 
where  he  took  his  meals  by  himself.  It  was  a  mysterious 


ANNE.  185 

place ;  monsieur  was  never  seen  there ;  it  was  not  known 
even  at  what  hour  he  dined.  But  there  were  stories  in 
whispered  circulation  of  soups,  sauces,  salads,  and  wines 
served  there  in  secret,  which  made  the  listeners  hungry 
even  in  the  mere  recital.  They  peered  into  the  dim  little 
room  as  they  passed,  but  never  saw  anything  save  a  brown 
linen  table-cloth,  an  old  caster,  and  one  chair.  It  was 
stated,  however,  that  this  caster  was  not  a  common  caster, 
but  that  it  held,  instead  of  the  ordinary  pepper  and  mus 
tard,  various  liquids  and  spices  of  mysterious  nature,  de 
lightfully  and  wickedly  French. 

In  less  than  an  hour  the  travellers  reached  Lancaster. 
Here  monsieur  placed  Anne  in  a  red  wagon  which  was  in 
waiting,  said  good-by  hastily  (being,  perhaps,  in  a  hurry 
to  return  to  his  dining-room),  and  caught  the  down  train 
back  to  the  city.  He  had  lived  in  America  so  long  that 
he  could  hurry  like  a  native. 

The  old  horse  attached  to  the  red  wagon  walked  slow 
ly  over  a  level  winding  road,  switching  his  tail  to  and  fro, 
and  stopping  now  and  then  to  cough,  with  the  profundity 
which  only  a  horse's  cough  possesses.  At  last,  turning 
into  a  field,  he  stopped  before  what  appeared  to  be  a  frag 
ment  of  a  house. 

"Is  this  the  place  ?"  said  Anne,  surprised. 

"  It's  Miss  Peter's,"  replied  the  boy  driver. 

The  appearance  of  Mademoiselle  Pitre  in  person  at  the 
door  now  removed  all  doubt  as  to  her  abode.  ' '  I  am  glad 
to  see  you,"  she  said,  extending  a  long  yellow  hand. 
"Enter." 

The  house,  which  had  never  been  finished,  was  old; 
the  sides  and  back  were  of  brick,  and  the  front  of  wood, 
temporarily  boarded  across.  The  kitchen  and  one  room 
made  all  the  depth ;  above,  there  were  three  small  cham 
bers.  After  a  while,  apparently,  windows  and  a  front 
door  had  been  set  in  the  temporary  boarding,  and  a  fiight 
of  steps  added.  Mademoiselle  had  bought  the  house  in 
its  unfinished  condition,  and  had  gradually  become  an 
object  of  great  unpopularity  in  the  neighborhood  because, 
as  season  after  season  rolled  by,  she  did  nothing  more  to 
her  purchase.  What  did  she  mean,  then  ?  Simple  com- 


186  ANNE. 

ment  swelled  into  suspicion ;  the  penny-saving  old  maid 
was  now  considered  a  dark  and  mysterious  person  at 
Lancaster.  Opinions  varied  as  to  whether  she  had  com 
mitted  a  crime  in  her  youth,  or  intended  to  commit  one 
in  her  age.  At  any  rate,  she  was  not  like  other  people — 
in  the  country  a  heinous  crime. 

The  interior  of  this  half -house  was  not  uncomfortable, 
although  arranged  with  the  strictest  economy.  The  chief 
room  had  been  painted  a  brilliant  blue  by  the  skillful 
hands  of  mademoiselle  herself;  there  was  no  carpet,  but 
in  summer  one  can  spare  a  carpet ;  and  Anne  thought 
the  bright  color,  the  growing  plants  and  flowers,  the  gay- 
ly  colored  crockery,  the  four  white  cats,  the  sunshine, 
and  the  cool  open  space  unfilled  by  furniture,  quaintly 
foreign  and  attractive. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  was  tall  and  yellow.  She 
was  attired  in  a  black  velvet  bodice,  and  a  muslin  skirt 
whereon  a  waving  design,  like  an  endless  procession  of 
spindling  beet  roots,  or  fat  leeches  going  round  and 
round,  was  depicted  in  dark  crimson.  This  muslin  was 
secretly  admired  in  the  neighborhood ;  but  as  mademoi 
selle  never  went  to  church,  and,  what  was  worse,  made  110 
change  in  her  dress  on  the  Sabbath-day,  it  was  consider 
ed  a  step  toward  rationalism  to  express  the  liking. 

Anne  slept  peacefully  on  her  narrow  bed,  and  went 
down  to  a  savory  breakfast  the  next  morning.  The  old 
Irish  servant,  Nora,  who  came  out  from  the  city  every 
summer  to  live  with  mademoiselle,  prepared  with  skill 
the  few  dishes  the  careful  mistress  ordered.  But  when 
the  meal  was  over,  Anne  soon  discovered  that  the  care 
ful  mistress  was  also  an  expert  in  teaching.  Her  French, 
Italian,  music,  and  drawing  were  all  reviewed  and  criti 
cised,  and  then  Jeanne-Armande  put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
told  her  pupil  to  make  ready  for  her  first  lesson  in  botany. 

"  Am  I  to  study  botany  ?"  said  Anne,  surprised. 

"All  study  botany  who  come  to  me,"  replied  Jeanne- 
Armande,  much  in  the  tone  of  ' '  Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi 
ch'  entrate."  "Is  that  all  the  bonnet  you  have  ?  It  is 
far  too  fine.  I  will  buy  you  a  Shaker  at  the  shop."  And 
with  her  tin  flower  case  slung  from  her  shoulder,  she  start- 


IN    THE  WOODS. 


ANNE.  187 

ed  down  the  road  toward  the  country  store  at  the  corners ; 
here  she  bought  a  Shaker  bonnet  for  her  pupil,  selecting 
one  that  was  bent,  and  demanding  a  reduction  in  price 
in  consequence  of  the  "irreparable  injury  to  the  fibre  of 
the  fabric."  The  shop-keeper,  an  anxious  little  man  with 
a  large  family,  did  his  best  to  keep  on  good  terms  with 
"the  foreigner1'  privately,  and  to  preserve  on  other  occa 
sions  that  appearance  of  virtuous  disapproval  which  the 
neighborhood  required  of  him.  He  lived  haunted  by  a 
fear  lest  the  Frenchwoman  and  her  chief  detractors  should 
meet  face  to  face  in  the  narrow  confines  of  his  domain ; 
and  he  had  long  determined  that  in  case  of  such  event  he 
would  be  down  in  the  cellar  drawing  molasses — an  oper 
ation  universally  known  to  con  sume  time.  But  the  sword 
of  Damocles  does  not  fall ;  in  this  instance,  as  in  others, 
mademoiselle  departed  in  safety,  bearing  Anne  away  to 
the  woods,  her  face  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  Shaker. 

Wild  flowers,  that  seem  so  fresh  and  young,  are,  singu 
larly  enough,  the  especial  prey  of  old  maids.  Young 
girls  love  the  garden  flowers ;  beautiful  women  surround 
themselves  with  hot-house  hues  and  perfumes.  But  who 
goes  into  the  woods,  explores  the  rocky  glens,  braves 
the  swamps  ?  Always  the  ardent-hearted  old  maid,  who, 
in  her  plain  garb  and  thick  shoes,  is  searching  for  the 
delicate  little  wild  blossoms,  the  world  over. 

Jeaiine-Armaiide  had  an  absorbing  love  for  flowers,  a 
glowing  enthusiasm  for  botany.  She  now  taught  Anne 
the  flower  study  with  what  Tante  would  have  called  ' '  a 
rage."  More  than  once  the  pupil  thought  how  strange 
it  was  that  fate  should  hav.e  forced  into  her  hands  at 
this  late  hour  the  talisman  that  might  once  have  been 
the  key  to  her  grandaunt's  favor.  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  that  Tante  was  the  Fate. 

Letters  had  come  from  all  on  the  island,  and  from  East. 
Regarding  her  course  in  telling  Miss  Vanhorn  of  her  en 
gagement,  Miss  Lois  wrote  that  it  was  ' '  quite  unneces 
sary,"  and  Dr.  Gaston  that  it  was  "imprudent."  Even 
East  (this  was  hardest  to  bear)  had  written,  ' '  While  I  am 
proud,  dearest,  to'have  your  name  linked  with  mine,  still, 
I  like  better  to  think  of  the  time  when  I  can  come  and 


188  ANNE. 

claim  you  in  person,  in  the  face  of  all  the  grandaunts 
in  the  world,  who,  if  they  Jmeiv  nothing,  could  not  in  the 
mean  time  harass  and  annoy  you." 

Pere  Michaux  made  no  comment.  Anne  looked  through 
Tita's  letters  for  some  time  expectantly,  but  no  message  in 
his  small,  clear  handwriting  appeared. 

The  weeks  passed.  The  pupil  learned  the  real  kind 
ness  of  the  teacher,  and  never  thought  of  laughing  at 
her  oddities,  until — Helen  came. 

For  Helen  came :  on  her  way  home  from  her  grandfa 
ther's  bedside,  whither  she  had  been  summoned  (as  usual 
two  or  three  times  each  year)  "to  see  him  die." 

"Grandpapa  always  recovers  as  soon  as  I  enter  the 
door,"  she  said.  "I  should  think  he  would  insist  upon 
my  living  there  as  a  safeguard !  This  time  I  did  not  even 
see  him — he  did  not  wish  me  in  the  room ;  and  so,  having 
half  a  day  to  spare,  I  decided  to  send  my  maid  on,  and 
stop  over  and  see  you,  Crystal." 

Anne,  delighted  and  excited,  sat  looking  at  her  friend 
with  happy  eyes.  "  I  am  so  glad,  glad,  to  see  you !"  she 
said. 

"Then  present  me  to  your  hostess  and  jailer.  For  I 
intend  to  remain  overnight,  and  corrupt  the  household." 

Jeanne-Armaiide  was  charmed  with  their  visitor ;  she 
said  she  was  "a  lady  decidedly  as  it  should  be."  Helen 
accompanied  them  on  their  botany  walk,  observed  the 
velvet  bodice  and  beet- root  muslin,  complimented  the 
ceremonious  courses  of  the  meagre  little  dinner,  and  did 
not  laugh  until  they  were  safely  ensconced  in  Anne's 
cell  for  the  night. 

' '  But,  Crystal, "  she  said,  when  she  had  imitated  Jeanne- 
Armande,  and  Anne  herself  as  pupil,  with  such  quick 
and  ridiculous  fidelity  that  Anne  was  obliged  to  bury  her 
face  in  the  pillow  to  stifle  her  laughter,  ' '  I  have  a  pur 
pose  in  coming  here.  The  old  dragon  has  appeared  at 
Caryl's,  where  Aunt  Gretta  and  I  spent  last  summer,  and 
where  we  intend  to  spend  the  remainder  of  this ;  she  is 
even  there  to-night,  caraway  seeds,  malice,  and  all.  Now 
I  want  you  to  go  back  with  me,  as  my  guest  for  a  week 
or  two,  and  together  we  will  annihilate  her." 


^  ANNE.  189 

"Do  not  call  her  by  that  name,  Helen." 

' '  Not  respectful  enough  ?  Grand  Llama,  then  ;  the 
double  1  scintillates  with  respect.  The  Grand  Llama 
being  present,  I  want  to  bring  you  on  the  scene  as  a 
charming,  botanizing,  singing  niece  whom  she  has 
strangely  neglected.  Will  you  go  ?" 

"Of  course  I  can  not." 

"•You  have  too  many  principles;  and,  mind  you,  prin 
ciples  are  often  shockingly  egotistical  and  selfish.  I 
would  rather  have  a  mountain  of  sins  piled  up  against 
me  on  the  judgment-day,  and  a  crowd  of  friends  whom  I 
had  helped  and  made  happy,  than  the  most  snowy  empty 
pious  record  in  the  world,  and  no  such  following." 

"One  does  not  necessitate  the  other,"  said  Anne,  after 
her  usual  pause  when  with  Helen :  she  was  always  a  little 
behind  Helen's  fluent  phrases.  ' '  One  can  have  friends 
without  sins." 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  Helen. 

In  the  morning  the  brilliant  visitor  took  her  departure, 
and  the  half -house  fell  back  into  its  usual  quietude.  Anne 
did  not  go  with  Helen ;  but  Helen  avowed  her  purpose  of 
bringing  her  to  Caryl's  yet,  in  spite  of  fate.  ' '  I  am  not 
easily  defeated,"  she  said.  "When  I  wish  a  thing,  it  al 
ways  happens.  But,  like  the  magicians,  nobody  notices 
how  hard  I  have  worked  to  have  it  happen." 

She  departed.  And  within  a  week  she  filled  Caryl's 
with  descriptions  of  Jeanne- Armande,  the  velvet  bodice, 
the  beet-root  skirt,  the  blue  room,  the  white  cats,  and  the 
dinner,  together  with  the  solitary  pupil,  whose  knowledge 
of  botany  was  something  unparalleled  in  the  history  of 
the  science.  Caryl's  was  amused  with  the  descriptions, 
and  cared  nothing  for  the  reality.  But  when  Miss  Van- 
horn  heard  the  tale,  it  was  the  reality  that  menaced  her. 
No  one  knew  as  yet  the  name  of  the  solitary  pupil,  nor 
the  relationship  to  herself ;  but  of  course  Mrs.  Lorrington 
was  merely  biding  her  time.  What  was  her  purpose  ? 
In  her  heart  she  pondered  over  this  new  knowledge  of 
botany,  expressly  paraded  by  Helen ;  her  own  eyes  and 
hands  were  not  as  sure  and  deft  as  formerly.  Sometimes 
now  when  she  stooped  to  gather  a  flower,  it  was  only  a 


190  ANNE.  ^ 

leaf  with  the  sun  shining  on  it,  or  a  growth  of  fungus, 
yellowly  white.  "Of  course  it  is  all  a  plan  of  old  Ma 
cau's,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Anne  would  never  have 
thought  of  studying  botany  to  gain  my  favor ;  she  hasn't 
wit  enough.  It  is  old  Moreau  and  the  Lorrington  to 
gether.  Let  us  see  what  will  be  their  next  step." 

But  Helen  merely  decorated  her  stories,  and  told  no 
thing  new.  One  day  some  one  asked:  "But  who  is  this 
girl  ?  All  this  while  you  have  not  told  us ;  nor  the  place 
where  this  remarkable  half -house  is." 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell,"  replied  Helen's  clear 
even  voice.  "That  is  not  permitted — at  present." 

Miss  Vanhorn  fidgeted  in  her  corner,  and  put  up  her 
glass  to  catch  any  wandering  expressions  that  might  be 
turning  in  her  direction ;  but  there  were  none.  ' '  She 
is  giving  me  a  chance  of  having  Anne  here  peaceably," 
she  thought.  ' '  If,  after  a  reasonable  time,  I  do  not  accept 
it,  she  will  declare  war,  and  the  house  will  ring  with  my 
hard-heartedness.  Fortunately  I  do  not  care  for  hard- 
heartsdness." 

She  went  off  on  her  solitary  drive ;  mistook  two  flowers ; 
stumbled  and  hurt  her  ankle ;  lost  her  magnifying-glass. 
On  her  way  home  she  sat  and  meditated.  It  would  be 
comfortable  to  have  young  eyes  and  hands  to  assist  her. 
Also,  if  Anne  was  really  there  in  person,  then,  when  all 
the  duets  were  sung,  and  the  novelty  (as  well  as  difficul 
ty)  over,  Mrs.  Lorrington  would  be  the  first  to  weary  of 
her  protegee,  and  would  let  her  fall  like  a  faded  leaf. 
And  that  would  be  the  end  of  that.  Here  a  sudden  and 
new  idea  came  to  her :  might  not  this  very  life  at  Caryl's 
break  up,  of  itself,  the  engagement  which  was  so  obnox 
ious  ?  If  she  should  bring  Anne  here  and  introduce  her 
as  her  niece,  might  not  her  very  ignorance  of  the  world 
and  crude  simplicity  attract  the  attention  of  some  of 
the  loungers  at  Caryl's,  who,  if  they  exerted  themselves, 
would  have  little  difficulty  in  effacing  the  memory  of  that 
boy  on  the  island  ?  They  would  not,  of  course,  be  in  earn 
est,  but  the  result  would  be  accomplished  all  the  same. 
Anne  was  impressionable,  and  truthfulness  itself.  Yes, 
it  could  be  done. 


ANNE.  19! 

Accompanied  by  her  elderly  maid,  she  went  back  to 
New  York ;  and  then  out  to  the  half -house. 

"I  have  changed  my  mind,"  she  announced,  abruptly, 
taking  her  seat  upon  Jeanne- Armande's  hard  sofa.  ' '  You 
are  to  come  with  me.  This  is  the  blue  room,  I  suppose ; 
and  there  are  the  four  cats.  Where  is  the  bodiced  wo 
man?  Send  her  to  me;  and  go  pack  your  clothes  im 
mediately." 

"Am  I  to  go  to  Caryl's— where  Helen  is?"  said  Anne, 
in  excited  surprise. 

"Yes;  you  will  see  your  Helen.  You  understand,  I 
presume,  that  she  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this." 

"  But— do  you  like  Helen,  grandaunt  ?" 

"  I  am  extremely  fond  of  her,"  replied  Miss  Vanhorn, 
dryly.  "Eun  and  make  ready;  and  send  the  bodiced 
woman  to  me.  I  give  you  half  an  hour;  no  longer." 

Jeanne- Armande  came  in  with  her  gliding  step.  In  her 
youth  a  lady's  footfall  was  never  heard.  She  wore  long 
narrow  cloth  gaiters  without  heels,  met  at  the  ankles  by 
two  modest  ruffles,  whose  edges  were  visible  when  the 
wind  blew.  The  exposure  of  even  a  hair's-breadth  rim 
of  ankle  would  have  seemed  to  her  an  unpardonable  im 
propriety.  However,  there  was  no  danger;  the  ruffles 
swept  the  ground. 

The  Frenchwoman  was  grieved  to  part  with  her  pupil ; 
she  had  conceived  a  real  affection  for  her  in  the  busy 
spot  which  served  her  as  a  heart.  She  said  good-by  in 
the  privacy  of  the  kitchen,  that  Miss  Vanhorn  might  not 
see  the  tears  in  her  eyes ;  then  she  returned  to  the  blue 
room  and  went  through  a  second  farewell,  with  a  dignity 
appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

"Good-by,"  said  Anne,  coming  back  from  the  doorway 
to  kiss  her  thin  cheek  a  second  time.  Then  she  whisper 
ed:  "I  may  return  to  you  after  all,  mademoiselle.  Do 
not  forget  me." 

"The  dear  child!"  said  Jeanne- Armande,  waving  her 
handkerchief  as  the  carriage  drove  away.  And  there  was 
a  lump  in  her  yellow  old  throat  which  did  not  disappear 
all  day. 


192  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Those  who  honestly  make  their  own  way  without  the  aid  of  fortu 
nate  circumstances  and  by  the  force  of  their  own  intelligence.  This 
includes  the  great  multitude  of  Americans." 

— GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

"He  is  a  good  fellow,  spoiled.  Whether  he  can  be  unspoiled,  is 
doubtful.  It  might  be  accomplished  by  the  Blessing  we  call  Sorrow." 

WHEN  the  two  travellers  arrived  at  Caryl's,  Helen  was 
gone.  Another  telegraphic  dispatch  had  again  sum 
moned  her  to  her  frequently  dying  grandfather. 

"You  are  disappointed,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn. 

"Yes,  grandaunt." 

"You  wrill  have  all  the  more  time  to  devote  to  me," 
said  the  old  woman,  with  her  dry  little  laugh. 

Caryl's  was  a  summer  resort  of  an  especial  kind.  Per 
sons  who  dislike  crowds,  persons  who  seek  novelty,  and, 
above  all,  persons  who  spend  their  lives  in  carefully  avoid 
ing  every  thing  and  place  which  can  even  remotely  be 
called  popular,  combine  to  make  such  nooks,  and  give 
them  a  brief  fame — a  fame  which  by  its  very  nature  must 
die  as  suddenly  as  it  is  born.  Caryl's  was  originally  a 
stage  inn,  or  "tarvern,"  in  the  dialect  of  the  district. 
But  the  stage  ran  no  longer,  and  as  the  railway  was 
several  miles  distant,  the  house  had  become  as  isolated 
as  the  old  road  before  its  door,  which  went  literally  no 
where,  the  bridge  which  had  once  spanned  the  river  hav 
ing  fallen  into  ruin.  Some  young  men  belonging  to  those 
New  York  families  designated  by  Tante  as  ' '  Neeker-bo- 
kers"  discovered  Caryl's  by  chance,  and  established  them 
selves  there  as  a  place  free  from  new  people,  with  some 
shooting,  and  a  few  trout.  The  next  summer  they 


ANNE.  193 

brought  their  friends,  and  from  this  beginning  had  swift 
ly  grown  the  present  state  of  things,  namely,  two  hundred 
persons  occupying  the  old  building  and  hastily  erected 
cottages,  in  rooms  which  their  city  servants  would  have 
refused  with  scorn. 

The  crowd  of  summer  travellers  could  not  find  Caryl's ; 
Caryl's  wras  not  advertised.  It  was  not  on  the  road  to 
anywhere.  It  was  a  mysterious  spot.  The  vogue  of  such 
places  changes  as  fantastically  as  it  is  created ;  the  people 
who  make  it  take  flight  suddenly,  and  never  return.  If 
it  exist  at  all,  it  falls  iuto  the  hands  of  another  class ;  and 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  wondering  (deservedly)  over  what 
was  ever  found  attractive  in  it.  The  nobler  ocean  beach 
es,  grand  mountains,  and  bounteous  springs  will  always 
be,  must  always  be,  popular ;  it  is  Nature's  ironical  meth 
od,  perhaps,  of  forcing  the  would-be  exclusives  to  content 
themselves  with  her  second  best,  after  all. 

CaryFs,  now  at  the  height  of  its  transient  fame,  was 
merely  a  quiet  nook  in  the  green  country,  with  no  more 
attractions  than  a  hundred  others ;  but  the  old  piazza  was 
paced  by  the  little  high-heeled  shoes  of  fashionable  wo 
men,  the  uneven  floors  swept  by  their  trailing  skirts. 
French  maids  and  little  bare-legged  children  sported  in 
the  old-fashioned  garden,  and  young  men  made  up  their 
shooting  parties  in  the  bare  office,  and  danced  in  the 
evening — yes,  really  danced,  not  leaving  it  superciliously 
to  the  boys — in  the  rackety  bowling-alley,  which,  re- 
floored,  did  duty  as  a  ball-room.  There  was  a  certain 
woody,  uncloying  flavor  about  Caryl's  (so  it  was  assert 
ed),  which  could  not  exist  amid  the  gilding  of  Saratoga. 
All  this  Miss  Vanhorii  related  to  her  niece  on  the  day  of 
their  arrival.  "  I  do  not  expect  you  to  understand  it, "  she 
said;  "  but  pray  make  no  comment ;  ask  no  question.  Ac 
cept  everything,  and  then  you  will  pass."" 

Aunt  and  niece  had  spent  a  few  days  in  New  York, 
en  route.  The  old  lady  was  eccentric  about  her  own  at 
tire  ;  she  knew  that  she  could  aff ord  to  be  eccentric.  But 
for  her  niece  she  purchased  a  sufficient  although  simple 
supply  of  summer  costumes,  so  that  the  young  girl  made 
iier  appearance  among  the  others  without  attracting  es 

13 


194  ANNE. 

pecial  attention.  Helen  was  not  there ;  no  one  identified 
Miss  Douglas  as  the  rara  avis  of  her  fantastic  narrations. 
And  there  was  no  surface  sparkle  about  Anne,  none  of 
the  usual  girlish  wish  to  attract  attention,  which  makes 
the  eyes  brighten,  the  color  rise,  and  the  breath  quick 
en  when  entering  a  new  circle. 

That  old  woman  of  the  world,  Katharine  Vanhorn, 
took  no  step  to  attract  notice  to  her  niece.  She  knew 
that  Anne's  beauty  was  of  the  kind  that  could  afford  to 
wait;  people  would  discover  it  for  themselves.  Anne 
remained,  therefore,  quietly  by  her  side  through  several 
days,  while  she,  not  unwilling  at  heart  to  have  so  fresh  a 
listener,  talked  on  and  instructed  her.  Miss  Vanhorn  was 
not  naturally  brilliant,  but  she  was  one  of  those  society 
women  who,  in  the  course  of  years  of  fashionable  life, 
have  selected  and  retained  for  their  own  use  excellent  bits 
of  phrasing  not  original  with  themselves,  idiomatic  epi 
thets,  a  way  of  neatly  describing  a  person  in  a  word  or 
two  as  though  you  had  ticketed  him,  until  the  listener 
really  takes  for  brilliancy  what  is  no  more  than  a  thread- 
anfl-needle  shop  of  other  people's  wares. 

"Any  man,"  she  said,  as  they  sat  in  the  transformed 
bowling-alley — "any  man,  110  matter  how  insignificant 
and  unattractive,  can  be  made  to  believe  that  any  woman, 
no  matte*-  how  beautiful  or  brilliant,  is  in  love  with  him, 
at  the  expense  of  two  looks  and  one  sigh." 

' '  But  who  cares  to  make  him  believe  ?"  said  Anne,  with 
the  unaffected,  cheerful  indifference  which  belonged  to 
her,  and  which  had  already  quieted  Miss  Vanhorn's  fears 
as  to  any  awkward  self-consciousness. 

"Most  women." 

"Why?" 

' '  To  swell  their  trains, "  replied  the  old  woman.  * '  Isa 
bel  Varce,  over  there  in  blue,  and  Rachel  Bannert,  the 
one  in  black,  care  for  nothing  else." 

"  Mrs.  Bannert  is  very  ugly,"  said  Anne,  with  the  calm 
certainty  of  girlhood. 

"Oh,  is  she?"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  laughing  shortly. 
"You  will  change  your  mind,  my  Phyllis;  you  will 
learn  that  a  dark  skin  and  half-open  eyes  are  superb." 


ANNE.  195 

"If  Helen  .was  here,  people  would  see  real  beauty," 
answered  Anne,  with  some  scorn. 

' '  They  are  a  contrast,  I  admit ;  opposite  types.  But  we 
must  not  be  narrow,  Phyllis ;  you  will  find  that  people 
continue  to  look  at  Mrs.  Baimert,  no  matter  who  is  by. 
Here  is  some  one  who  seems  to  know  you." 

' '  Mr.  Dexter, "  said  Anne,  as  the  tall  form  drew  near. 
"  He  is  a  friend  of  Helen's." 

' '  Helen  has  a  great  many  friends.  However,  I  hap 
pen  to  have  heard  of  this  Mr.  Dexter.  You  may  present 
him  to  me — I  hope  you  know  how." 

All  Madame  Moreau's  pupils  knew  how.  Anne  per 
formed  her  task  properly,  and  Dexter,  bringing  forward 
one  of  the  old  broken-backed  chairs  (which  formed  part 
of  the  "woody  and  uncloying  flavor"  of  Caryl's),  sat 
down  beside  them. 

' '  I  am  surprised  that  you  remembered  me,  Mr.  Dexter," 
said  the  girl.  ' '  You  saw  me  but  once,  and  on  New- Year's 
Day  too,  among  so  many." 

"But  you  remembered  me,  Miss  Douglas." 

"That  is  different.  You  were  kind  to  me— about  the 
singing.  It  is  natural  that  I  should  remember." 

' '  And  why  not  as  natural  that  I  should  remember  the 
singing  ?" 

' '  Because  it  was  not  good  enough  to  have  made  any  es 
pecial  impression,"  replied  Anne,  looking  at  him  calm 
ly  with  her  clear  violet  eyes. 

' '  It  was  at  least  new — I  mean  the  simplicity  of  the  lit 
tle  ballad,"  said  Dexter,  ceasing  to  compliment,  and  speak 
ing  only  the  truth. 

"Simplicity!"  said  Miss  Vanhorn:  "I  am  tired  of  it. 
I  hope,  Anne,  you  will  not  sing  any  simplicity  songs 
here ;  those  ridiculous  things  about  bringing  an  ivy  leaf, 
only  an  ivy  leaf,  and  that  it  was  but  a  little  faded  flower. 
They  show  an  extremely  miserly  spirit,  I  think.  If  you 
can  not  give  your  friends  a  whole  blossom  or  a  fresh 
one,  you  had  better  not  give  them  any  at  all." 

i '  Who  was  it  who  said  that  he  was  sated  with  poetry 
about  flowers,  and  that  if  the  Muses  must  come  in  every 
where,  he  wished  they  would  not  always  come  as  green- 


196        * 

grocers  ?"  said  Dexter,  who  knew  perfectly  the  home  of 
this  as  of  every  other  quotation,  but  always  placed  it  in 
that  way  to  give  people  an  opportunity  of  saying,  ' '  Charles 
Lamb,  wasn't  it?"  or  "Sheridan?"  It  made  conversation 
flowing. 

"The  flowers  do  not  need  the  Muses,"  said  Miss  Van- 
horn — "slatternly  creatures,  with  no  fit  to  their  gowns. 
And  that  reminds  me  of  what  Anne  was  saying  as  you 
came  up,  Mr.  Dexter ;  she  was  calmly  and  decisively  ob 
serving  that  Mrs.  Bannert  was  very  ugly." 

A  smile  crossed  Dexter's  face  in  answer  to  the  old  wo 
man's  short  dry  laugh. 

"I  added  that  if  Mrs.  Lorrington  was  here,  people 
would  see  real  beauty,"  said  Anne,  distressed  by  this  be 
trayal,  but  standing  by  her  guns. 

Miss  Vaiihorn  laughed  again.  "Mr.  Dexter  particu 
larly  admires  Mrs.  Baimert,  child, "she  said,  cheerfully, 
having  had  the  unexpected  amusement  of  two  good  laughs 
in  an  evening. 

But  Anne,  instead  of  showing  embarrassment,  turned 
her  eyes  toward  Dexter,  as  if  in  honest  inquiry, 

"Mrs.  Bannert  represents  the  Oriental  type  of  beauty," 
he  answered,  smiling,  as  he  perceived  her  frank  want 
of  agreement. 

"Say  creole, "said  Miss  Vanhorn.  "It  is  a  novelty, 
child,  which  has  made  its  appearance  lately ;  a  reaction 
after  the  narrow-chested  type  which  has  so  long  in  Amer 
ica  held  undisputed  sway.  We  absolutely  take  a  quad 
roon  to  get  away  from  the  consumptive,  blue-eyed  saint, 
of  whom  we  are  all  desperately  tired." 

' '  New  York  city  is  now  developing  a  type  of  its  own, 
I  think, "  said  Dexter.  ' '  You  can  tell  a  New  York  girl  at 
a  glance  when  you  meet  her  in  the  West  or  the  South. 
Women  walk  more  in  the  city  than  they  do  elsewhere, 
and  that  has  given  them  a  firm  step  and  bearing,  which 
are  noticeable." 

' '  To  think  of  comparisons  between  different  parts  of  this 
raw  land  of  ours,  as  though  they  had  especial  character 
istics  of  their  own  !"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  looking  for  a 
seed. 


ANNE.  19? 

"You  have  not  travelled  much  in  this  country,  I  pre 
sume,"  said  Dexter. 

"No,  man,  no.     When  I  travel,  I  go  abroad." 

"I  have  never  been  abroad,"  answered  Dexter,  quietly. 
"But  I  can  see  a  difference  between  the  people  of  Massa 
chusetts  and  the  people  of  South  Carolina,  the  people 
of  Philadelphia  and  the  people  of  San  Francisco,  which 
is  marked  and  of  the  soil.  I  even  think  that  I  can  tell 
a  Baltimore,  Buffalo,  Chicago,  Louisville,  or  St.  Louis 
family  at  sight." 

"You  go  to  all  those  places?"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  half 
closing  her  eyes,  and  speaking  in  a  languid  voice,  as  if 
the  subject  was  too  remote  for  close  attention. 

"Yes.     You  are  not  aware  that  I  am  a  business  man." 

"Ah  ?  What  is  it  you  do  ?"  said  the  old  woman,  who 
knew  perfectly  Dexter' s  entire  history,  but  wanted  to  hear 
his  own  account  of  himself. 

' k  I  am  interested  in  iron ;  that  is,  I  have  iron  mills, 
and — other  things." 

"  Exactly ;  as  you  say — other  things.  Does  that  mean 
politics  ?" 

"Partly,"  said  Dexter,  smiling. 

"And  oil?" 

"No.  I  have  never  had  any  opportunity  to  coin  gold 
with  the  Aladdin's  lamp  found  in  Pennsylvania.  There 
is  no  magic  in  any  of  my  occupations ;  they  are  all  regu 
lar  and  commonplace." 

"Are  you  in  Congress  now?" 

"No;  I  was  only  there  one  term." 

"A  bore,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  to  me." 

"Congress  is  always  a  riot,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  still 
with  her  eyes  closed. 

"I  can  not  agree  with  you,"  said  Dexter,  his  face  tak 
ing  on  one  of  its  resolute  expressions.  "I  have  small 
patience  with  those  Americans  who  affect  to  be  above  any 
interest  in  the  government  of  the  country  in  which  they 
live.  It  is  their  country,  and  they  can  no  more  alter  that 
fact  than  they  can  change  their  plain  grandfathers  into 
foreign  noblemen." 


198  ANNE. 

"Dear  me!  dear  me!"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  carelessly. 
"  You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  mass-meeting-." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dexter,  his  former  manner 
returning.  ' '  I  forgot  for  the  moment  that  no  one  is  in 
earnest  at  Caryl's. " 

"By-the-way,  how  did  you  ever  get  in  here?"  said 
Miss  Vanhorn,  with  frank  impertinence. 

"I  came  because  I  like  to  see  all  sides  of  society,"  he 
replied,  smiling  down  upon  her  with  amused  eyes. 

"Give  me  your  arm.  You  amount  to  something," 
said  the  old  woman,  rising.  "We  will  walk  up  and 
down  for  a  few  moments ;  and,  Anne,  you  can  come  too." 

"I  am  almost  sure  that  he  is  Helen's  Knight-errant," 
thought  Anne.  "And  I  like  him  very  much." 

A  niece  of  Miss  Vanhorn's  could  not  of  course  be  slight 
ed.  The  next  day  Isabel  Varce  came  up  and  talked  a 
while ;  later,  Mrs.  Bannert  and  the  others  followed. 
Gregory  Dexter  was  with  aunt  and  niece  frequently ;  and 
Miss  Vanhorn  was  pleased  to  be  very  gracious.  She  talk 
ed  to  him  herself  most  of  the  time,  while  Anne  watched 
the  current  of  the  new  life  round  her.  Other  men  had 
been  presented  to  her ;  and  among  them  she  thought  she 
recognized  the  Chanting  Tenor  and  the  Poet  of  Helen's 
narratives.  She  could  not  write  to  Helen ;  the  eccentric 
grandfather  objected  to  letters.  ' '  Fools  and  women  clog 
the  mails,"  wTas  one  of  his  favorite  assertions.  But  al 
though  Anne  could  not  write,  Helen  could  smuggle  let 
ters  occasionally  into  the  outgoing  mail-bags,  and  when 
she  learned  that  Anne  was  at  Caryl's,  she  wrote  imme 
diately.  "Have  you  seen  Isabel  Varce  yet  ?"  ran  the  let 
ter.  ' '  And  Rachel  Bannert  ?  The  former  is  my  dearest 
rival,  the  latter  my  deadliest  friend.  Use  your  eyes,  I 
beg.  What  amusement  I  shall  have  hearing  your  de 
scriptions  when  I  come  !  For  of  course  you  will  make 
the  blindest  mistakes.  However,  a  blind  man  has  been 
known  to  see  sometimes  what  other  people  have  never 
discovered.  How  is  the  Grand  Llama  ?  I  conquered  her 
at  last,  as  I  told  you  I  should.  With  a  high  pressure  of 
magnanimity.  But  it  was  all  for  my  own  sake;  and 
now,  behold,  I  am  here !  But  you  can  study  the  Bishop, 


ANNE.  199 

the  Poet,  the  Tenor,  and  the  Knight-errant  in  the  flesh ; 
how  do  you  like  the  Knight  ?" 

"This  place  is  a  prison,"  wrote  Helen,  again;  "and  I 
am  in  the  mean  time  consumed  with  curiosity  to  know 
ivhat  is  going  on  at  Caryl's.  Please  answer  my  letters, 
and  put  the  answers  away  until  I  come ;  it  is  the  only 
method  I  can  think  of  by  which  I  can  get  the  aroma  of 
each  day.  Or,  rather,  not  the  aroma,  but  the  facts ;  you 
do  not  know  much  of  aromas.  If  facts  were  '  a  divine 
thing'  to  Frederick  the  Great  (Mr.  Dexter  told  me  that,  of 
course) ,  they  are  certainly  extremely  solemn  to  you.  Tell 
me,  then,  what  everybody  is  doing.  And  particularly 
the  Bishop  and  the  Knight-errant." 

And  Anne  answered  the  letters  faithfully,  telling  every 
thing  she  noticed,  especially  as  to  Dexter.  .  Who  the 
Bishop  was  she  had  not  been  able  to  decide. 

In  addition  to  the  others,  Ward  Heathcote  had  now 
arrived  at  Caryl's,  also  Mr.  Blum. 

In  the  mean  time  Miss  Vanhorn  had  tested  without 
delay  her  niece's  new  knowledge  of  botany.  Her  face 
was  flushed  and  her  hand  fairly  trembled  with  eagerness 
as  she  gave  Anne  her  first  wild  flower,  and  ordered  her  to 
analyze  it.  Would  she  blunder,  or  show  herself  dull 
and  incompetent  ?  One  thing  was  certain :  no  pretended 
zeal  could  deceive  old  Katharine— she  knew  the  reality  too 
well. 

But  there  was  no  pretense.  Anne,  honest  as  usual, 
analyzed  the  flower  with  some  mistakes,  but  with  real  in 
terest  ;  and  the  keen  black  eyes  recognized  the  genuine 
hue  of  the  feeling,  as  far  as  it  went.  After  that  initia 
tion,  every  morning  they  drove  to  the  woods,  and  Anne 
searched  in  all  directions,  coming  back  loaded  down  with 
spoil.  Every  afternoon  there  followed  analyzing,  press 
ing,  drying,  and  labelling,  for  hours. 

"Pray  leave  the  foundations  of  our  bridge  intact," 
called  Isabel  Varce,  passing  on  horseback,  accompanied 
by  Ward  Heathcote,  and  looking  down  at  Anne  digging 
up  something  on  the  bank  below,  while  at  a  little  dis 
tance  Miss  Vanhorn's  coupe  was  waiting,  with  the  old 
lady's  hard  face  looking  out  through  the  closed  window. 


200  ANNE. 

Anne  laughed,  and  turned  her  face,  glowing- with  rose* 
color,  upward  to  look  at  them. 

"Do you  like  that  sort  of  thing ?"  said  Isabel,  pausing, 
having  noted  at  a  glance  that  the  young  girl  was  attired 
in  old  clothes,  and  appeared  in  every  way  at  a  disad 
vantage.  She  had  no  especial  malice  toward  Anne  in  this ; 
she  merely  acted  on  general  principles  as  applied  to  all 
of  her  own  sex.  But  even  the  most  acute  feminine  minds 
make  mistakes  on  one  subject,  namely,  they  forget  that 
to  a  man  dress  is  not  the  woman.  Anne,  in  her  faded 
gown,  down  on  the  muddy  bank,  with  her  hat  off,  her 
boots  begrimed,  and  her  zeal  for  the  root  she  was  digging 
up,  seemed  to  Ward  Heathcote  a  new  and  striking  crea 
ture.  The  wind  ruffled  her  thick  brown  hair  and  blew 
it  into  little  rings  and  curls  about  her  face,  her  eyes,  un 
flinching  in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  laughed  back  at  them 
as  they  looked  over  the  railing;  the  lines  of  her  shoul 
der  and  extended  arms  were  of  npble  beauty.'  To  a  wo 
man's  eyes  a  perfect  sleeve  is  of  the  highest  importance;!  (jw 
it  did  not  occur  to  Isabel  that  through  the  ugly,  baggy, 
out-of-date  sleeve  down  there  on  the  bank,  the  wind, 
sturdily  blowing,  was  revealing  an  arm  whose  outline  silk 
and  lace  could  never  rival.;  Satisfied  with  her  manoeu 
vre,  she  rode  on :  Anne  certainly  looked  what  all  women 
would  have  called  "  a  fright." 

Yet  that  very  evening  Heathcote  approached,  recalled 
himself  to  Miss  Vanhorn's  short  memory,  and,  after  a  few 
moments  of  conversation,  sat  down  beside  Anne,  who 
received  him  with  the  same  frank  predisposition  to  be 
pleased  which  she  gave  to  all  alike.  Heathcote  was  not 
a  talker  like  Dexter;  he  seemed  to  have  little  to  say  at 
any  time.  He  was  one  of  a  small  and  unimportant  class 
in  the  United  States,  which  would  be  very  offensive  to 
citizens  at  large  if  it  came  in  contact  with  them ;  but  it 
seldom  does.  To  this  class  there  is  no  city  in  America 
save  New  York,  and  New  York  itself  is  only  partially 
.  endurable.  National  reputations  are  nothing,  politics 
nothing.  Money  is  necessary,  and  ought  to  be  provid 
ed  in  some  way ;  and  generally  it  is,  since  without  it  this 
class  could  not  exist  in  a  purely  democratic  land.  But 


AXXE.  201 

it  is  inherited,  not"Viade.  It  may  be  said  that  simply 
the  large  landed  estates  acquired  at  an  early  date  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  city,  and  immensely  increased  in  value 
by  the  growth  of  the  metropolis,  have  produced  this  class, 
which,  however,  having  no  barriers,  can  never  be  perma 
nent,  or  make  to  itself  laws.  Heathcote's  great-grand 
father  was  a  landed  proprietor  in  Westchester  County ; 
he  had  lived  well,  and  died  at  a  good  old  age,  to  be  suc 
ceeded  by  his  son,  who  also  lived  well,  and  died  not  so 
well,  and  poorer  than  his  father.  The  grandson  increased 
the  ratio  in  both  cases,  leaving  to  his  little  boy,  Ward, 
but  a  small  portion  of  the  original  fortune,  and  departing 
from  the  custom  of  the  house  in  that  he  died  early.  The 
boy,  without  father,  mother,  brother,  or  sister,  grew  up 
under  the  care  of  guardians,  and,  upon  coming  of  age, 
took  possession  of  the  remnant  left  to  him.  A  good 
portion  of  this  he  himself  had  lost,  not  so  much  from  ex 
travagance,  however,  as  carelessness.  He  had  been 
abroad,  of  course,  and  had  adopted  English  ways,  but 
not  with  any  violence.  He  left  that  to  others.  He  pass 
ed  for  good-natured  in  the  main;  he  was  not  restless. 
He  was  quite  willing  that  other  men  should  have  more 
luxuries  than  he  had — a  yacht,  for  instance,  or  fine  horses ; 
he  felt  no  irritation  011  the  subject.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  would  have  been  much  surprised  to  learn  that  any  one 
longed  to  take  him  out  and  knock  him  down,  simply  as  an 
insufferable  object.  Yet  Gregory  Dexter  had  that  long 
ing  at  times  so  strongly  that  his  hand  fairly  quivered. 

Heathcote  was  slightly  above  middle  height,  and  wrell 
built,  but  his  gait  was  indolent  and  careless.  Good  fea 
tures  unlighted  by  animation,  a  brown  skin,  brown  eyes 
ordinarily  rather  lethargic,  thick  brown  hair  and  mus 
tache,  and  heavy  eyebrows  standing  out  prominently 
from  the  face  in  profile  view,  were  the  items  ordinarily 
given  in  a  general  description.  He  had  a  low-toned  voice 
and  slow  manner,  in  which,  however,  there  was  no  af 
fectation.  What  was  the  use  of  doing  anything  with 
any  particular  effort  ?  He  had  no  antipathy  for  persons 
of  other  habits;  the  world  was  large.  It  was  noticed, 
however  (or  rather  it  was  not  noticed),  that  he  generally 


202  ANNE. 

got  away  from  them  as  soon  as  he  "quietly  could.  He 
had  lived  to  be  thirty-two  years  old,  and  had  011  the 
».  whole  enjoyed  life  so  far,  although  he  was  neither  es 
pecially  important,  handsome,  nor  rich.  The  secret  of 
this  lay  in  one  fact :  women  liked  him. 

What  was  it  that  they  found  to  like  in  him  ?  This  was 
the  question  asked  often  in  irritation  by  his  brother  man. 
And  naturally.  For  the  women  themselves  could  not 
give  a  reasonable  reason.  The  corresponding  side  of  life 
is  not  the  same,  since  men  admire  with  a  reason ;  the  wo 
man  is  plainly  beautiful,  or  brilliant,  or  fascinating  round 
whom  they  gather.  At  Caryl's  seven  or  eight  men  were 
handsomer  than  Heathcote  ;  a  number  were  more  brill 
iant;  many  were  richer.  Yet  almost  all  of  these  had  dis 
covered,  at  one  time  or  another,  that  the  eyes  they  were 
talking  to  were  following  Heathcote  furtively ;  and  they 
had  seen  attempts  that  made  them  tingle  with  anger — all 
the  more  so  because  they  were  so  iiifinitesimally  delicate 
and  fine,  as  became  the  actions  of  well-bred  women.  One 
or  two,  who  had  married,  had  had  explained  to  them 
elaborately  by  their  wives  what  it  was  they  (in  their  free 
days,  of  course)  had  liked  in  Heathcote — elaborately,  if 
not  clearly.  The  husbands  gathered  generally  that  it 
was  only  a  way  he  had,  a  manner ;  the  liking  was  half 
imaginative,  after  all.  Now  Heathcote  was  not  in  the 
least  imaginative.  But  the  women  wrere. 

Manly  qualities,  good  hearts,  handsome  faces,  and  great 
er  wealth  held  their  own  in  fact  against  him.  Marriages 
took  place  in  his  circle,  wedding  chimes  pealed,  and 
brides  were  happy  under  their  veils  in  spite  of  him. 
Yet,  as  histories  of  lives  go,  there  was  a  decided  bal 
ance  in  his  favor  of  feminine  regard,  and  no  one  could 
deny  it. 

He  had  now  but  a  small  income,  and  had  been  obliged 
to  come  down  to  a  very  simple  manner  of  life.  Those 
who  disliked  him  said  that  of  course  he  would  marry 
money.  As  yet,  however,  he  had  shown  no  signs  of  ful 
filling  his  destiny  in  this  respect.  He  seldom  took  the 
trouble  to  express  his  opinions,  and  therefore  passed  as 
having  .none;  but  those  who  were  clear-sighted  knew 


ANNE.  203 

better.  Dexter  was  one  of  these,  and  this  entire  absence 
of  self-assertion  in  Ward  Heathcote  stung  him.  For 
Dexter  always  asserted  himself;  he  could  not  help  it.  He 
came  in  at  this  moment,  and  noted  Heathcote's  position 
near  Anne.  Obeying1  an  impulse,  he  crossed  the  room 
immediately,  and  began  a  counter-conversation  with  Miss 
Vanhorn,  the  chaperon. 

"Trying  to  interest  that  child,"  he  thought,  as  he 
listened  to  the  grandaunt  with  the  air  of  deferential  at 
tention  she  liked  so  well.  With  eyes  that  apparently 
never  once  glanced  in  their  direction,  he  kept  close  watch 
of  the  two  beyond.  "She  is  no  match  for  him,"  he 
thought,  with  indignation;  "she  has  had  no  experience. 
It  ought  not  to  be  allowed." 

But  Dexter  always  mistook  Heathcote;  he  gave  him 
credit  for  plans  and  theories  of  which  Heathcote  never 
dreamed.  In  fact,  he  judged  him  by  himself.  Heath 
cote  was  merely  talking  to  Anne  now  in  the  absence  of 
other  entertainment,  having  felt  some  slight  curiosity 
about  her  because  she  had  looked  so  bright  and  contented 
on  the  mud-bank  under  the  bridge.  He  tried  to  recall 
his  impression  of  her  on  New-Year's  Day,  and  determined 
to  refresh  his  memory  by  Blum ;  but,  in  the  mean  time, 
outwardly,  his  manner  was  as  though,  silently  of  course, 
but  none  the  less  deeply,  he  had  dwelt  upon  her  image 
ever  since.  It  was  this  impalpable  manner  which  made 
Dexter  indignant.  He  knew  it  so  well !  He  said  to  him 
self  that  it  was  a  lie.  And,  generally  speaking,  it  was. 
But  possibly  in  this  case  (as  in  others)  it  was  not  so  much 
the  falsity  of  the  manner  as  its  success  which  annoyed  the 
other  man. 

He  could  not  hear  what  was  said ;  and  the  words,  in 
truth,  were  not  many  or  brilliant.  But  he  knew  the  sort 
of  quiet  glance  with  which  they  were  being  accompanied. 
Yet  Dexter,  quick  and  suspicious  as  he  was,  would  nev 
er  have  discovered  that  glance  unaided.  He  had  learned 
it  from  another,  and  that  other,  of  course,  a  woman. 
For  once  in  a  wThile  it  happens  that  a  woman,  when 
roused  to  fury,  will  pour  out  the  whole  story  of  her 
wrongs  to  some  man  who  happens  to  be  near.  No  man 


204  ANNE. 

does  this.  He  has  not  the  same  need  of  expression ;  and, 
besides,  he  will  never  show  himself  at  such  a  disadvan 
tage  voluntarily,  even  for  the  sake  of  comfort.  He 
would  rather  remain  uncomforted.  But  women  of  strong 
^feelings  often,  when  excited,  cast  wisdom  to  the  winds, 
and  even  seem  to  find  a  desperate  satisfaction  in  the 
most  hazardous  imprudences,  which  can  injure  only  them 
selves.  In  a  mood  of  this  kind,  some  one  had  poured  out 
to  Gregory  Dexter  bitter  testimony  against  Heathcote, 
one-sided,  perhaps,  but  photographically  accurate  in  all 
the,  details,  which  are  so  much  to  women.  Dexter  had 
listened  with  inward  anger  and  contempt ;  but  he  had 
listened.  And  he  had  recognized,  besides,  the  accent  of 
truth  in  every  word.  The  narrator  was  now  in  Austria 
with  a  new  and  foreign  husband,  apparently  as  happy  as 
the  day  is  long.  But  the  listener  had  never  forgotten 
or  forgiven  her  account  of  Heathcote's  method  and  man 
ner.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  despised  it,  and  he  did 
despise  it.  Still,  in  some  occult  way,  one  may  be  jealous 
of  results  attained  even  by  ways  and  means  for  which 
one  feels  a  righteous  contempt;  and  the  more  so  when 
one  has  a  firm  confidence  in  his  own  abilities,  which  have 
not  yet,  however,  been  openly  recognized  in  that  field. 
In  all  other  fields  Gregory  Dexter  was  a  marked  type  of 
American  success. 

As  the  days  moved  slowly  on,  he  kept  watch  of  Heath- 
cote.  It  was  more  a  determination  to  foil  him  than  in 
terest  in  Anne  which  made  him  add  himself  as  a  third 
whenever  he  could  unobtrusively ;  which  was  not  often, 
since  Miss  Vanhorn  liked  to  talk  to  him  herself,  and 
Anne  knew  no  more  how  to  aid  him  than  a  nun.  After 
a  while  Heathcote  became  conscious  of  this  watchful 
ness,  and  it  amused  him.  His  idea  of  Dexter  was  "a 
clever  sort  of  fellow,  who  has  made  money,  and  is  am 
bitious.  Goes  in  for  politics,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
Talks  well,  but  too  much.  Tiresome."  He  began  to  de 
vote  himself  to  Anne  now  in  a  different  way;  hitherto  he 
had  been  only  entertaining  himself  (and  rather  languid 
ly)  by  a  study  of  her  fresh  naive  truthfulness.  He  had 
drawn  out  her  history ;  he,  too,  knew  of  the  island,  the 


ANNE.  205 

fort,  and  the  dog  trains.  Poor  Anne  was  always  elo 
quent  on  these  subjects.  Her  color  rose,  her  words  came 
quickly. 

"You  are  fond  of  the  island,1'  he  said,  one  evening,  as 
they  sat  on  the  piazza  in  the  moonlight,  Dexter  within 
three  feet  of  them,  but  unable  to  hear  their  murmured 
words.  For  Heathcote  had  a  way  of  interposing  his 
shoulder  between  listeners  and  the  person  to  whom  he 
was  talking,  which  made  the  breadth  of  woollen  cloth  as 
much  a  barrier  as  a  stone  wall ;  he  did  this  more  frequent 
ly  now  that  he  had  discovered  Dexter's  watchfulness. 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  in  as  low  a  voice  as  his  own.  Then 
suddenly,  plainly  visible  to  him  in  the  moonlight,  tears 
welled  up  and  dropped  upon  her  cheeks. 

She  had  been  homesick  all  day.  Sometimes  Miss  Van- 
horn  was  hard  and  cold  as  a  bronze  statue  in  winter; 
sometimes  she  was  as  quick  and  fiery  as  if  charged  with 
electricity.  Sometimes  she  veered  between  the  two.  To 
day  had  been  one  of  the  veering  days,  and  Anne  had 
worked  over  the  dried  plants  five  hours  in  a  close  room, 
now  a  mark  for  sarcastic  darts  of  ridicule,  now  enduring 
an  icy  silence,  until  her  lot  seemed  too  heavy  to  bear.  She 
had  learned  to  understand  the  old  woman's  moods,  but 
understanding  pain  does  not  make  it  lighter.  Released 
at  last,  a  great  wave  of  homesickness  had  swept  over 
her,  which  did  not,  however,  break  bounds  until  Heath- 
cote's  words  touched  the  spring ;  then  the  gates  opened  and 
the  tears  came. 

They  had  no  sooner  dropped  upon  her  cheeks,  one,  two, 
three,  than  she  was  overwhelmed  with  hot  shame  at  hav 
ing  allowed  them  to  fall,  and  with  fear  lest  any  one 
should  notice  them.  Mr.  Heathcote  had  seen  them,  that 
was  hopelessly  certain ;  but  if  only  she  could  keep  them 
from  her  grandaunt !  Yet  she  did  not  dare  to  lift  her 
handkerchief  lest  its  white  should  attract  attention. 

But  Heathcote  knew  what  to  do. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  the  tears  (to  him,  of  course,  totally 
unexpected;  but  girls  are  so),  he. raised  his  straw  hat, 
which  lay  on  his  knee,  and,  holding  it  by  the  crown,  be 
gan  elaborately  to  explain  some  peculiarity  in  the  lin- 


206  ANXE. 

ing  (he  called  it  South  American)  invented  for  the  occa 
sion,  at  the  same  time,  by  the  motion,  screening  her  face 
completely  from  observation  on  the  other  side.  B  ut  Anne 
could  not  check  herself;  the  very  shelter  brought  thicker 
drops.  He  could  not  hold  his  hat  in  that  position  for 
ever,  even  to  look  at  Brazilian  linings.  He  rose  suddenly, 
and  standing  in  front  so  as  to  screen  her,  he  cried,  "A 
bat!  a  bat!"  at  the  same  time  making  a  pass  with  his 
hat  as  though  he  saw  it  in  the  air. 

Every  one  on  the  piazza  rose,  darted  aside  hither  and 
thither,  the  ladies  covering  their  heads  with  their  fans  and 
handkerchiefs,  the  men  making  passes  with  their  hats,  as 
usual  on  bat  occasions;  every  one  was  sure  the  noxious 
creature  flew  by.  For  a  number  of  minutes  confusion 
reigned.  When  it  was  over,  Anne's  cheeks  were  dry,  and 
a  little  cobweb  tie  had  been  formed  between  herself  and 
Heathcote.  It  was  too  slight  to  be  noticed,  but  it  was 
there. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Le  hasard  sait  ce  qu'il  fait !" — French  Proverb. 

THE  next  day  there  was  a  picnic.  No  one  wished  to  go 
especially  save  Isabel  Varce,  but  no  one  opposed  her  wish. 
At  Caryl's  they  generally  followed  whatever  was  sug 
gested,  with  indolent  acquiescence.  Miss  Vanhorn,  how 
ever,  being  a  contrary  planet  revolving  in  an  orbit  of 
her  own,  at  first  declined  to  go;  there  were  important 
plants  to  finish.  But  Mr.  Dexter  persuaded  her  to  change 
her  mind,  and,  with  Anne,  to  accompany  him  in  a  cer 
tain  light  carriage  which  he  had  ordered  from  the  next 
town,  more  comfortable  than  the  Caryl  red  wagons,  and 
not  so  heavy  as  her  own  coupe.  Miss  Vanhorn  liked  to 
be  comfortable,  and  she  was  playing  the  part  also  of  lik 
ing  Gregory  Dexter ;  she  therefore  accepted.  She  knew 
perfectly  well  that  Dexter  s  ' '  light  carriage"  had  not  come 
from  the  next  town,  but  from  New  York ;  and  she  smiled 
at  what  she  considered  the  effort  of  this  new  man  to  con 
ceal  his  lavishness.  But  she  was  quite  willing  that  he 


ANNE.  207 

should  spend  his  money  to  gain  her  favor  (she  having 
already  decided  to  give  it  to  him),  and  therefore  it  was 
with  contentment  that  she  stepped  into  the  carriage — 
a  model  of  its  kind — on  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day, 
and  put  up  her  glass  to  watch  the  others  ascending,  by  a 
little  flight  of  steps,  to  the  high  table-land  of  the  red 
wagons.  Mr.  Heathcote  was  on  horseback ;  he  dismount 
ed,  however,  to  assist  Mrs.  Bannert  to  her  place.  He 
raised  his  hat  to  Anne  with  his  usual  quiet  manner,  but 
she  returned  his  salutation  with  a  bright  smile.  She 
was  grateful  to  him.  Had  he  not  been  kind  to  her  ? 

The  picnic  was  like  most  picnics  of  the  sort — heavy 
work  for  the  servants,  languid  amusement,  not  unmixed 
with  only  partially  concealed  ennui,  on  the  part  of  the 
guests.  There  was  but  little  wandering  away,  the  par 
ticipants  being  too  few  for  much  severance.  They  stroll 
ed  through  the  woods  in  long-drawn  links ;  they  went  to 
see  a  view  from  a  knoll ;  they  sang  a  few  songs  gently, 
faint  pipings  from  the  ladies,  arid  nothing  from  the  men 
(Blum  being  absent)  save  the  correct  bass  of  Dexter, 
which  seemed  very  far  down  indeed  in  the  cellars  of  mel 
ody,  while  the  ladies  were  on  the  high  battlements. 
The  conversation  was  never  exactly  allowed  to  die  out, 
yet  it  languished.  Almost  all  would  rather  have  been  at 
home.  The  men  especially  found  small  pleasure  in  sit 
ting  on  the  ground ;  besides,  a  distinct  consciousness  that 
the  attitude  was  not  becoming.  For  the  American  does 
not  possess  a  taste  for  throwing  himself  heartily  down 
upon  Mother  Earth.  He  can  camp;  he  can  hunt,  swim, 
ride,  walk,  use  Indian  clubs,  play  base-ball,  drive,  row,  sail 
a  yacht,  or  even  guide  a  balloon ;  but  when  it  comes  to 
grass,  give  him  a  bench. 

Isabel  Varce,  in  a  Avonderful  costume  of  woodland 
green,  her  somewhat  sharp  features  shaded  by  a  shep 
herdess  hat,  carried  out  her  purpose — the  subjugation  of 
a  certain  Peter  Dane,  a  widower  of  distinction,  a  late  ar 
rival  at  Caryl's.  Mrs.  Bannert  had  Ward  Heathcote  by 
her  side,  apparently  to  the  satisfaction  of  both.  Other 
men  and  women  were  contented  or  discontented  as  it  hap 
pened  ;  and  two  or  three  school-girls  of  twelve  or  thirteen 


208  ANNE. 

really  enjoyed  themselves,  being  at  the  happy  age  when 
blue  sky  and  golden  sunshine,  green  woods  and  lunch  on 
the  grass,  are  all  that  is  necessary  for  supreme  happiness. 
There  was  one  comic  element  present,  and  by  mistake. 
A  reverend  gentleman  of  the  kind  that  calls  everybody 
"brother" had  arrived  unexpectedly  at  Caryl's;  he  was 
journeying  for  the  purpose  of  distributing  certain  thin 
pamphlets  of  powerfully  persuasive  influence  as  to  gen 
eral  virtue,  and  as  he  had  not  been  over  that  ground  for 
some  years,  he  had  no  suspicion  that  Caryl's  had  changed, 
or  that  it  was  any  more  important  than  Barr's,  Murphy's, 
Allen's,  and  other  hamlets  in  the  neighborhood  and  pos 
sessive  case,  with  whose  attributes  he  was  familiar.  Old 
John  Caryl  had  taken  him  in  for  a  night  or  two,  and 
had  ordered  the  unused  school-house  at  the  cross-roads  to 
be  swept  out  for  a  hamlet  evening  service ;  but  the  hamlet 
could  not  confine  the  Reverend  Ezra  Sloane.  His  heart 
waxed  warm  within  him  at  the  sight  of  so  many  per 
sons,  all  well-to-do,  pleasant  to  the  eye,  and  apparently 
not  pressed  for  time.  He  had  spent  his  life  in  minister 
ing  to  the  poor  in  this  world's  goods,  and  to  the  workers 
who  had  no  leisure ;  it  was  a  new  pleasure  to  him  simply 
to  be  among  the  agreeable,  well-dressed,  and  unanxious. 
He  took  his  best  coat  from  his  lean  valise,  and  wore  it 
steadily.  He  was  so  happy  in  his  child-like  satisfaction 
that  no  one  rebuffed  him,  and  when  he  presented  himself, 
blandly  smiling,  to  join  the  picnic  party,  no  one  had  the 
heart  to  tell  him  of  his  mistake.  As  he  climbed  com 
placently  into  one  of  the  wagons,  however,  stiff  old  Mrs. 
Bannert,  on  the  back  seat,  gave  John  Caryl,  standing  at 
the  horses'  heads,  a  look  which  he  understood.  The  Rev 
erend  Ezra  must  depart  the  next  morning,  or  be  merged 
— conclusively  merged — in  the  hamlet.  His  fate  was 
sealed.  But  to-day  he  disported  himself  to  his  heart's 
content ;  his  smiling  face  was  everywhere.  He  went 
eagerly  through  the  woods,  joining  now  one  group,  now 
another ;  he  laughed  when  they  laughed,  understanding, 
however,  but  few  of  their  allusions.  He  was  restlessly 
anxious  to  join  in  the  singing,  but  could  not,  as  he  did 
not  know  their  songs,  and  he  proposed,  in  entire  good 


"HE    TOOK    HIS    BEST    COAT   FROM    HIS    LEAN    VALISE. 


ANNE.  209 

faith,  one  or  two  psalms,  giving  them  up,  however,  im 
mediately,  when  old  Mrs.  Bannert,  who  had  taken  upon 
herself  the  task  of  keeping  him  down,  remarked  sternly 
that  no  one  knew  the  tunes.  He  went  to  see  the  view, 
and  extending  his  hand,  said,  in  his  best  manner,  "Be 
hold  !  brethren,  is  there  not  hill,  and  dale,  and  mountain, 
and  valley,  and — river?"  As  he  said  "river"  he  closed 
his  eyes  impressively,  and  stood  there  among  them  the 
image  of  self-complacence.  The  wind  blew  out  his  black 
coat,  and  showed  how  thin  it  was,  and  the  wearer  as  well. 

"Why  is  it  always  a  thin,  weakly  man  like  that  who 
insists  upon  calling  people  '  brethren'  ?"  said  Heathcote, 
as  they  stood  a  little  apart. 

' '  Because,  being  weakly,  we  can  not  knock  him  down 
for  it,  as  we  certainly  should  do  if  he  was  stronger,"  said 
Dexter. 

But  it  was  especially  at  lunch  that  the  Eeverend  Ezra 
shone  forth ;  rising  to  the  occasion,  he  brought  forth  all 
the  gallant  speeches  of  his  youth,  which  had  much  the 
air  of  his  grandfather's  Green  Mountain  musket.  Some 
of  his  phrases  Anne  recognized :  Miss  Lois  used  them. 
The  young  girl  was  pained  to  see  how  out  of  place  he 
was,  how  absurd  in  his  well-intentioned  efforts ;  and  she 
therefore  drew  him  a  little  apart,  and  strove  to  entertain 
him  herself.  She  had  known  plain  people  on  the  island, 
and  had  experienced  much  of  their  faithful  goodness  and 
generosity  in  times  of  trouble ;  it  hurt  her  to  have  him  rid 
iculed.  It  came  out,  during  this  conversation,  that  he 
knew  something  of  botany,  and  on  the  strength  of  this 
passport  she  took  him  to  Miss  Vaiihorn.  The  Reverend 
Ezra  really  did  understand  the  flora  of  the  district,  through 
which  he  had  journeyed  many  times  in  former  years  on 
his  old  mare;  Miss  Vanhorn's  sharp  questions  brought 
out  what  he  knew,  and  gave  him  also  the  grateful  sen 
sation  of  imparting  valuable  information.  He  now  ap 
peared  quite  collected  and  sensible.  He  mentioned,  after 
a  while,  that  an  orchid  grew  in  these  very  woods  at  some 
distance  up  the  mountain — an  orchid  which  was  rare. 
Miss  Vaiihorn  had  never  seen  that  particular  orchid  in 
its  wild  state ;  a  flush  rose  in  her  cheek. 

14 


210  ANNE. 

1 '  We  can  drive  out  to-morrow  and  look  for  it,  grand- 
aunt,"  said  Anne. 

"No,"  replied  Miss  Vanhorn,  firmly;  "that  orchid 
must  be  found  to-day,  while  Mr. — Mr. — 

"Sloane,"  said  the  minister,  affably. 

"  — while  Mr.  Stone  is  with  you  to  point  out  the  exact 
locality.  I  desire  you  to  go  with  him  immediately,  Anne ; 
this  is  a  matter  of  importance." 

"It  is  about  two  miles  up  the  mountain,"  objected  the 
missionary,  loath  to  leave  the  festival. 

"Anne  is  not  afraid  of  two  short  miles,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  inflexibly.  "And  as  for  yourself,  Mr.  Doane, 
no  doubt  you  will  be  glad  to  abandon  this  scene  of  idle 
frivolity."  And  then  the  Reverend  Ezra,  a  little  startled 
by  this  view  of  the  case,  yielded,  and  sought  his  hat  and 
cane. 

This  conversation  had  taken  place  at  one  side.  Mr. 
.Dexter,  however,  talking  ceremoniously  with  old  Mrs. 
Bannert,  overheard  it,  and  immediately  thought  of  a  plan 
by  which  it  might  be  made  available  for  his  own  purposes. 
The  picnic  had  not  given  him  much  satisfaction  so  far;  it 
had  been  too  languid.  With  all  his  effort,  he  could  not 
quite  enter  into  the  continuous  indolence  of  Caryl's. 
True,  he  had  taken  Anne  from  Heathcote,  thus  checking 
for  the  moment  that  gentleman's  lazy  supremacy,  at  least 
in  one  quarter ;  but  there  were  other  quarters,  and  Heath- 
cote  was  now  occupying  the  one  which  Dexter  himself 
coveted  most  of  all,  namely,  the  seat  next  to  Rachel  Ban 
nert.  Rachel  was  a  widow,  and  uncomfortably  depend 
ent  upon  her  mother-in-law.  The  elder  Mrs.  Bannert  was 
sharp-eyed  as  a  hawk,  wise  as  a  serpent,  and  obstinate  as 
a  hedge-hog ;  Rachel  as  soft-voiced  and  soft-breasted  as  a 
dove ;  yet  the  latter  intended  to  have,  and  did  in  the  end 
have,  the  Bannert  estate,  and  in  the  mean  time  she 
"shared  her  mother-in-law's  home."  There  were  vary 
ing  opinions  as  to  the  delights  of  that  home. 

Dexter,  fretted  by  Heathcote's  unbroken  conversation 
with  Rachel,  and  weary  of  the  long  inaction  of  the  morn 
ing,  now  proposed  that  they  should  all  go  in  search  of  the 
orchid ;  his  idea  was  that  at  least  it  would  break  up  exist- 


ANNE.  2U 

ing  proximities,  and  give  them  all  something  to  do. 
Lunch  had  been  prolonged  to  the  utmost  extent  of  its 
vitality,  and  the  participants  were  in  the  state  of  nerve 
less  leaves  in  Indian  summer,  ready  to  float  away  011  the 
first  breeze.  They  strolled  off,  therefore,  all  save  the  eld 
er  ladies,  through  the  wood,  led  by  the  delighted  Ezra, 
who  had  that  "  God-bless-you-all-my-friends"  air  with 
which  many  worthy  people  are  afflicted.  The  appar 
ent  self-effacement  effected  by  good-breeding,  even  in  the 
wicked,  is  certainly  more  agreeable  to  an  ordinary  world 
than  the  unconscious  egotism  of  a  large  class  of  the  good. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  woodman's  trail  they 
were  following  turned  and  went  up  the  mountain-side. 
No  one  save  Anne  and  the  missionary  had  the  slightest 
intention  of  walking  two  miles  to  look  for  a  flower,  but 
they  were  willing  to  stroll" on  for  a  while.  They  came 
to  the  main  road,  and  crossed  it,  making  many  objections 
to  its  being  there,  with  its  commonplace  daylight,  after 
the  shade,  flickering  sunbeams,  and  vague  green  vistas 
of  the  forest.  But  on  this  road,  in  the  dust,  a  travelling 
harp-player  was  trudging  along,  accompanied  by  a  wizen 
ed  little  boy  and  a  still  more  wizened  monkey. 

' '  Let  us  carry  them  off  into  the  deepest  woods,  and 
have  a  dance,"  said  Isabel.  "  We  will  be  nymphs  and 
dryades,  and  all  sorts  of  woodland  things." 

It  is  difficult  to  dance  on  uneven  ground,  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  to  the  sound  of  an  untuned  old  harp,  and  a 
violin  held  upside  down,  and  scraped  by  a  melancholy 
boy.  But  Isabel  had  her  way,  or  rather  took  it,  and  they 
all  set  off  somewhat  vaguely  for  "the  deepest  woods," 
leaving  the  woodman's  path,  and  following  another 
track,  which  Isabel  pronounced  ' '  such  a  dear  little  trail 
it  must  lead  somewhere."  The  Reverend  Ezra  was  dis 
turbed.  He  thought  he  held  them  all  under  his  own 
guidance,  when,  lo !  they  were  not  only  leaving  him  and 
his  orchid  without  a  word  of  excuse,  but  were  actually 
departing  with  a  wandering  harpist  to  find  a  level  spot 
on  which  to  dance ! 

"  I— I  think  that  path  leads  only  to  an  old  quarry,"  he 
said,  with  a  hesitating  smile. 


212  ANNE. 

But  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  him,  save  Anne,  who 
had  paused  also,  uncertain  what  to  do. 

"We  will  get  the  orchid  afterward,  Miss  Douglas," 
said  Dexter.  "I  promise  that  you  shall  have  it." 

"But  Mr.  Sloane," said  Anne,  glancing  toward  the  de 
serted  missionary. 

"  Come  with  us,  dominie,"  said  Dexter,  with  the  ready 
good-nature  that  was  one  of  his  outward  characteristics. 
It  was  a  quick,  tolerant  good-nature,  and  seemed  to  be 
long  to  his  hroad,  strong  frame. 

But  the  dominie  had  a  dignity  of  his  own,  after  all. 
When  he  realized  that  he  was  forsaken,  he  came  for 
ward  and  said  quietly  that  he  would  go  up  the  mountain 
alone  and  get  the  orchid,  joining  them  at  the  main-road 
crossing  on  the  way  back. 

' '  As  you  please, "  said  Dexter.  ' '  And  I,  for  one,  shall 
feel  much  indebted  to  you,  sir,  if  you  bring  back  the 
flower,  because  I  have  promised  Miss  Douglas  that  she 
should  have  it,  and  should  be  obliged  to  go  for  it  my 
self,  ignorant  as  I  am,  were  it  not  for  your  kindness." 

He  raised  his  hat  courteously,  and  went  off  with  Anne 
to  join  the  others,  already  out  of  sight. 

"  I  suppose  he  does  not  approve  of  the  dancing,"  said 
the  girl,  looking  back. 

But  Dexter  did  not  care  whether  he  approved  or  disap 
proved;  he  had  already  dismissed  the  dominie  from  his 
mind. 

The  path  took  them  to  a  deserted  stone-quarry  in  the 
side  of  the  hill.  There  was  the  usual  yawning  pit,  floor 
ed  with  broken  jagged  masses  and  chips  of  stone,  the 
straight  bare  wall  of  rock  above,  and  the  forest  greenery 
coming  to  the  edge  of  the  desolation  on  all  sides,  and 
leaning  over  to  peep  clown.  The  quarrymen  had  camp 
ed  below,  and  the  little  open  space  where  once  their  lodge 
of  boughs  had  stood  was  selected  by  Isabel  for  the  dan 
cing  floor.  The  harpist,  a  small  old  man  clad  in  a  grimy 
velveteen  coat,  played  a  waltz,  to  which  the  little  Italian 
boy  added  a  lagging  accompaniment;  the  monkey,  who 
seemed  to  have  belonged  to  some  defunct  hand-organ, 
sat  on  a  stump  and  surveyed  the  scene.  They  did  not  all 


ANNE.  213 

dance,  but  Isabel  succeeded  in  persuading  a  few  to  move 
through  a  quadrille  whose  figures  she  improvised  for 
the  occasion.  But  the  scene  was  more  picturesque  when, 
after  a  time,  the  dull  partners  in  coats  were  discarded, 
and  the  floating  draperies  daiicea  by  themselves,  join 
ing  hands  in  a  ring,  and  circling  round  and  round  with 
merry  little  motions  which  were  charmingly  pretty,  like 
kittens  at  play.  Then  they  made  the  boy  sing,  and  he 
chanted  a  tune  which  had  (musically)  neither  begin 
ning  nor  end,  but  a  useful  quality  of  going  on  forever. 
But  whatever  he  did,  and  whatever  they  gave  him,  made 
no  difference  in  his  settled  melancholy,  which  the  monk 
ey's  small  face  seemed  to  caricature.  Then  they  danced 
again,  and  this  time  Dexter  took  part,  while  the  other 
coated  ones  remained  on  the  grass,  smoking.  It  ended 
in  his  waltzing  with  them  all  in  turn,  and  being  over 
whelmed  with  their  praises,  which,  however,  being  lev 
elled  at  the  heads  of  the  others  by  strongly  implied  com 
parison,  were  not  as  valuable  as  they  seemed.  Dexter 
knew  that  he  gained  nothing  by  joining  in  that  dance; 
but  where  there  was  something  to  do,  lie  could  not  resist 
doing  it.  When  the  waltz  was  over,  and  the  wandering 
musicians  sent  on  their  way  with  a  lavish  reward  of  sil 
ver,  which  the  monkey  had  received  cynically  as  it  was 
placed  piece  by  piece  in  his  little  paw,  Isabel  led  off  all 
the  ladies  "to  explore  the  quarry,"  expressly  forbidding 
the  others  to  follow.  With  an  air  of  great  enjoyment 
in  their  freedom  and  solitude  the  floating  draperies  de 
parted,  and  the  smokers  were  left  under  the  trees,  con 
tent,  on  their  side  also,  to  have  half  an  hour  of  quiet. 
Mr.  Peter  Dane  immediately  and  heartily  yawned  at  full 
width,  and  was  no  longer  particular  as  to  the  position 
of  his  legs.  In  truth,  it  was  the  incipient  fatigue  on  the 
face  of  this  distinguished  widower  which  had  induced  Is 
abel  to  lead  off  her  exploring  party ;  for  when  a  man  is 
over  fifty,  nothing  is  more  dangerous  than  to  tire  him. 
He  never  forgives  it. 

Isabel  led  her  band  round  to  an  ascent,  steep  but  not 
long;  her  plan  was  to  go  up  the  hill  through  the  wood, 
and  appear  on  the  top  of  the  quarry,  so  many  graceful 


214  ANNE. 

figures  high  in  the  air  against  the  blue  sky,  for  the  indo 
lent  smokers  below  to  envy  and  admire.  Isabel  was  a 
slender  creature  with  a  pale  complexion ;  the  slight  col 
or  produced  by  the  exercise  would  be  becoming.  Rachel, 
who  was  dimpled,  "never  could  climb";  her  "ankles" 
were  ' '  not  strong. "  (And  certainly  they  were  very  small 
ankles  for  such  a  weight  of  dimples.)  The  party  now 
divided  itself  under  these  two  leaders;  those  who  were 
indolent  staid  with  Rachel;  those  who  were  not  afraid 
of  exercise  went  with  Isabel.  A  few  went  for  amuse 
ment,  without  motive ;  among  these  was  Anne.  One  went 
for  wrath ;  and  this  was  Valeria  Morle. 

It  is  hard  for  a  neutral-faced  girl  with  a  fixed  opinion 
of  her  own  importance  to  learn  the  lesson  of  her  real  in 
significance,  when  removed  from  the  background  of  home, 
at  a  place  like  Caryl's.  Valeria  was  there,  mistakenly 
visiting  an  aunt  for  two  weeks,  and  with  the  calm  securi 
ty  of  the  country  mind,  she  had  mentally  selected  Ward 
Heathcote  as  her  knight  for  the  time  being,  and  had  be 
stowed  upon  him  in  consequence  several  little  speeches 
and  smiles  carefully  calculated  to  produce  an  impression, 
to  mean  a  great  deal  to  any  one  who  was  watching.  But 
Heathcote  was  not  watching;  the  small  well-regulated 
country  smiles  had  about  as  much  effect  as  the  twitterings 
of  a  wren  would  have  in  a  wood  full  of  nightingales. 
Miss  Morle  could  not  understand  it;  had  they  not  slain 
their  thousands,  nay,  ten  thousands  (young  lady's  com 
putation),  in  Morleville  ?  She  now  went  up  the  hill  in 
silent  wrath,  glad  to  do  something  and  to  be  away  from 
Heathcote.  Still,  she  could  not  help  believing  that  he 
would  miss  her ;  men  had  been  known  to  he  very  much 
interested  in  girls,  and  yet  make  no  sign  for  a  long  time. 
They  watched  them  from  a  distance.  In  this  case  Va 
leria  was  to  have  her  hopes  realized.  She  was  to  be 
watched,  and  from  a  distance. 

The  eight  who  reached  the  summit  sported  gayly 
to  and  fro  for  a  while,  now  near  the  edge,  now  back, 
gathering  flowers  and  throwing  them  over,  calling  down 
to  the  smokers,  who  lay  and  watched  them,  without,  how 
ever,  any  burning  desire  especially  visible  on  their  coun- 


ANNE.  215 

tenaiices  to  climb  up  and  join  them.  Valeria,  with  a 
stubborn  determination  to  make  herself  in  some  way 
conspicuous,  went  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  even 
leaned  over ;  she  had  one  arm  round  a  young  tree, 
'  but  half  of  her  shoes  (by  no  means  small  ones)  were  over 
.the  verge,  and  the  breeze  showed  that  they  were.  Anne 
saw  it,  and  spoke  to  Isabel. 

"If  she  will  do  it,  she  will,"  answered  Isabel;  "and 
the  more  we  notice  her,  the  more  she  will  persist.  She  is 
one  of  those  dull  girls  intended  by  Nature  to  be  always 
what  is  called  sensible.  And  when  one  of  those  girls 
takes  to  making  a  fool  of  herself,  her  idiocy  is  colossal." 

But  Isabel's  philosophy  did  not  relieve  Anne's  fear. 
She  called  to  Valeria,  warningly,  "  You  are  very  near  the 
edge,  Miss  Morle ;  wouldn't  it  be  safer  to  step  back  a  little  ?" 

But  Valeria  would  not.  They  were  all  noticing  her 
at  last.  They  should  see  how  strong  her  nerves  were, 
how  firm  her  poise.  The  smokers  below,  too,  were  now 
observing  her.  She  threw  back  her  head,  and  hummed  a 
little  tune.  If  the  edge  did  not  crumble,  she  was,  in 
truth,  safe  enough.  To  a  person  who  is  not  dizzy,  five 
inches  of  foot-hold  is  as  safe  as  five  yards. 

But — the  edge  did  crumble.  And  suddenly.  The 
group  of  women  behind  had  the  horror  of  seeing  her 
sway,  stagger,  slip  down,  frantically  writhe  on  the  verge 
half  an  instant,  and  then,  with  an  awful  scream,  slide  over 
out  of  sight,  as  her  arm  was  wrenched  from  the  little  tree. 
Those  below  had  seen  it  too.  They  sprang  to  their  feet, 
and  ran  first  forward,  then  round  and  up  the  hill  be 
hind. 

For  she  had  not  slipped  far.  The  cliff  jutted  out  slight 
ly  a  short  distance  below  the  verge,  and,  by  what  seemed 
a  miracle,  the  girl  was  held  by  this  second  edge.  Eight 
inches  beyond,  the  sheer  precipice  began,  with  the  pile  of 
broken  stones  sixty  feet  below.  Anne  was  the  first  td 
discover  this,  reaching  the  verge  as  the  girl  sank  out  of 
sight ;  the  others,  shuddering,  put  their  hands  over  their 
eyes  and  clung  together. 

"She  has  not  fallen  far,11  cried  Anne,  with  a  quick  and 
burning  excitement.  "Lie  still.  Valeria,"  she  called 


216  ANNE. 

down.  "Close  your  eyes,  and  make  yourself  perfectly 
motionless;  hardly  breathe.  We  will  save  you  yet. " 

She  took  hold  of  the  young  tree  to  test  its  strength,  at 
the  same  time  speaking  rapidly  to  the  others.  "By  ly 
ing  down,  and  clasping  that  tree  trunk  with  one  arm, 
and  then  stretching  over,  I  can  just  reach  her  hand,  I 
think,  and  seize  it.  Do  you  see  ?  That  is  what  I  am  go 
ing  to  try  to  do.  I  can  not  tell  how  strong  this  tree  is ; 
but — there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  After  I  am  down, 
and  have  her  hand,  do  anything  you  think  best  to  secure 
us.  Either  hold  me  yourselves  or  make  ropes  of  your 
sacques  and  shawls.  If  help  comes  soon,  we  can  save 
her."  While  still  speaking,  she  threw  herself  down 
upon  the  edge,  clasped  one  arm  strongly  round  the  tree 
trunk,  and  stretching  down  sideways,  her  head  and 
shoulder  over  the  verge,  she  succeeded  in  first  touching, 
then  clasping,  the  wrist  of  the  girl  below,  who  could  not 
see  her  rescuer  as  she  lay  facing  the  precipice  with  closed 
eyes,  helpless  and  inert.  It  was  done,  but  only  two  girls1 
wrists  as  a  link. 

The  others  had  caught  hold  of  Anne  as  strongly  as  they 
could. 

"No, "said  Isabel,  taking  command  excitedly;  "one 
of  you  hold  her  firmly,  and  the  rest  clasp  arms  and  form 
a  chain,  all  sitting  down,  to  that  large  tree  in  the  rear. 
If  the  strain  comes,  throw  yourselves  toward  the  large 
tree." 

So  they  formed  a  chain.  Isabel,  looking  over,  saw 
that  the  girl  below  had  clasped  Anne's  wrist  with  her  own 
fingers  also — a  strong  grasp,  a  death-grasp.  If  she  slipped 
farther,  Anne  must  slip  too. 

All  this  had  not  taken  two  minutes — scarcely  a  min 
ute  and  a  half.  They  were  now  all  motionless;  they 
could  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  men  hurrying  up  the  hill 
behind,  coming  nearer  and  nearer.  But  how  slow  they 
were!  How  long!  The  men  were  exactly  three  min 
utes,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  never  in  their  lives  had 
they  rushed  up  a  hill  with  such  desperate  haste  and  en 
ergy.  But — women  expect  wings. 

Heathcote  and  Dexter  reached  the  summit  first.     There 


ANNE.  217 

they  beheld  five  white-cheeked  women,  dressed  in  various 
dainty  floating  fabrics,  and  adorned  with  ferns  and  wild 
flowers,  sitting-  011  the  ground,  clasping  each  others'  hands 
and  arms.  They  formed  a  line,  of  which  the  woman  at 
one  end  had  her  arm  round  a  large  tree,  and  the  wo 
man  at  the  other  round  the  body  of  a  sixth,  who  was  half 
over  the  cliff.  A  seventh  and  free  person,  Isabel,  stood 
at  the  edge,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  heavy  form  poised  along 
the  second  verge  below.  No  one  spoke  but  Isabel.  ' '  She 
has  caught  on  something,  and  Anne  is  holding  her,"  she 
explained,  in  quick  although  low  tones,  as  if  afraid  to 
disturb  even  the  air.  But  while  she  was  speaking  the 
two  men  had  gone  swiftly  to  the  edge,  at  a  little  distance 
below  the  group,  and  noted  the  position  themselves. 

"Let  me — "  began  Dexter. 

' '  No,  you  are  too  heavy, "  answered  Heathcote.  ' '  You 
must  hold  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel.  "Quick!  quick!"  A  woman  in 
a  hurry  would  say  "  Quick !"  to  the  very  lightning. 

But  if  men  are  slow,  they  are  sure.  Heathcote  stretch 
ed  himself  down  carefully  on  the  other  side  of  the  little 
tree,  but  without  touching  it,  that  being  Anne's  chief  sup 
port,  and  bearing  his  full  weight  upon  Dexter,  who  in 
turn  was  held  by  the  other  men,  who  had  now  come  up, 
he  seized  Valeria's  arm  firmly  above  Anne's  hand,  and 
told  Anne  to  let  go  her  hold.  They  were  face  to  face ; 
Anne's  forehead  was  suffused  with  red,  owing  to  her 
cramped  position. 

I  can  not;  she  has  grasped  my  wrist," she  answered. 

' '  Let  go,  Miss  Morle, "  called  Heathcote.  ' '  I  have  you 
firmly;  do  you  not  feel  my  hand  ?" 

But  Valeria  would  not ;  perhaps  could  not. 

"Some  of  you  take  hold  of  Miss  Douglas,  then,"  call 
ed  Heathcote  to  the  men  above.  "The  girl  below  will 
not  loosen  her  hold,  and  you  will  have  to  draw  us  all 
up  together." 

"Ready  ?"  called  the  voices  above,  after  an  instant. 

"Ready,"  answered  Heathcote. 

Then  he  felt  himself  drawn  upward  slowly,  an  inch, 
two  inches;  so  did  Anne.  The  two  downward-stretched 


218  ANNE. 

arms  tightened ;  the  one  upward-lifted  arm  began  to  rise 
from  the  body  to  which  it  belonged.  But  what  a  weight 
for  that  one  arm !  Valeria  was  a  large,  heavy  girl,  with 
a  ponderous  weight  of  bone.  In  the  position  in  which 
she  lay,  it  seemed  probable  that  her  body  might  swing 
over  the  edge,  and  almost  wrench  the  arm  from  its  socket 
by  its  weight. 

' '  Stop, "  said  Heathcote.,  perceiving  this.  The  men 
above  paused.  ' '  Are  you  afraid  to  support  her  for  one 
instant  alone,  Anne  ?"  he  asked. 

' '  No, "  murmured  Anne.  Her  eyes  were  blood-shot ;  she 
saw  him  through  a  crimson  cloud. 

"Keep  me  firmly,"  he  called  out,  warningly,  to  Dexter. 
Then,  letting  go  his  first  hold,  he  stretched  down  still 
farther,  made  a  slight  spring  forward,  and  succeeded  in 
grasping  Valeria's  waist.  " Now  pull  up,  and  quickly," 
he  said,  panting. 

And  thus,  together,  Valeria  firmly  held  by  Heathcote, 
the  two  rescuers  and  the  rescued  were  drawn  safely  up 
from  danger  to  safe  level  again.  Only  a  few  feet,  but 
all  the  difference  between  life  and  death. 

When  the  others  looked  down  upon  the  now  uncover 
ed  space,  they  saw  that  it  was  only  the  stump  of  a  slen 
der  cedar  sapling,  a  few  inches  in  height,  and  two  little 
edges  of  rock  standing  up  unevenly  here  and  there,  which 
had  formed  the  parapet.  A  person  might  have  tried  all 
day,  with  an  acrobat's  net  spread  below  for  safety,  to 
cling  there,  without  success;  Valeria  had  fallen  at  the 
one  angle  and  in  the  one  position  which  made  it  possi 
ble.  Two  arms  were  strained,  and  that  was  all. 

Isafoel  was  white  with  nervous  fear ;  the  others  showed 
traces  of  tears.  But  the  cause  of  all  this  anxiety  and 
trouble,  although  entirely  uninjured  and  not  nervous  (she 
had  not  seen  herself),  sat  smiling  upon  them  all  in  a  sweet 
suffering-martyr  way,  and  finally  went  down  the  hill  with 
masculine  escort  on  each  side — apotheosis  not  before  at 
tained.  Will  it  be  believed  that  this  girl,  fairly  well  ed 
ucated  and  in  her  sober  senses,  was  simpleton  enough  to 
say  to  Heathcote  that  evening,  in  a  sentimental  whisper, 
"How  I  wish  that  Miss  Douglas  had  not  touched  me!" 


ANNE.  219 

There  was  faint  moonlight,  and  the  simpering  expression 
of  the  neutral  face  filled  him  with  astonishment.  Dex 
ter  would  have  understood :  Dexter  was  accustomed  to  all 
varieties  of  women,  even  the  Valeria  variety :  but  Heath- 
cote  was  not.  All  he  said,  therefore,  was,  "  Why  ?" 

"Because  then  you  alone  would  have  saved  me,"  mur 
mured  Valeria,  sweetly. 

"If  Miss  Douglas  had  not  grasped  you  as  she  did,  we 
might  all  have  been  too  late,"  replied  Heathcote,  looking 
at  her  in  wonder. 

"Ah,  no;  I  did  not  slip  farther.  You  would  have 
been  in  time,"  said  the  belle  of  Morleville,  with  what  she 
considered  a  telling  glance.  And  she  actually  convinced 
herself  that  she  had  made  an  impression. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,  of  course,  Louisa, "she 
said  to  her  bosom-friend,  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room, 
after  her  return  to  Morleville ;  "but  I  really  felt  that  he 
deserved  at  least  that  reward  for  his  great  devotion  to 
me,  poor  fellow !" 

' '  And  why  couldn't  you  like,  him,  after  all,  Valeria 
dear  ?"  urged  Louisa,  deeply  interested,  and  not  a  little 
envious. 

"I  could  not — I  could  not,"  replied  Valeria,  slowly  and 
virtuously,  shaking  her  head.  "He  had  not  the  prin 
ciples  I  require  in  a  man.  But — I  felt  sorry  for  him." 

Oh,  ineffable  Valerias !  what  would  life  be  without  you  ? 

Dexter  had  been  the  one  to  offer  his  arm  to  Anne  when 
she  felt  able  to  go  down  the  hill.  At  the  main-road  cross 
ing  they  found  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sloane  faithfully  sitting 
on  a  dusty  bank,  with  the  orchid  in  his  hand,  waiting  for 
them.  It  seemed  to  Anne  that  a  long  and  vague  period 
of  time  had  passed  since  they  parted  from  him.  But  she 
was  glad  to  get  the  orchid ;  she  knew  that  no  slight  ex 
traneous  affair,  such  as  the  saving  of  a  life,  would  excuse 
the  absence  of  that  flower.  Rachel  Bannert  had  chafed 
Heathcote's  strained  arm  with  her  soft  hands,  and  ar 
ranged  a  sling  for  it  made  of  her  sash.  She  accompanied 
him  back  to  the  picnic  ground.  It  was  worth  while  to 
have  a  strained  arm. 

Miss  Vanhorri  considered  that  it  was  all  nonsense,  and 


220  ANNE. 

was  inclined  to  reprove  her  niece.  But  she  had  the  or 
chid  ;  and  when  Dexter  came  up,  and  in  a  few  strong 
words  expressed  his  admiration  for  the  young  girl's  cour 
age,  she  changed  her  mind,  and  agreed  with  him,  al 
though  regretting  "the  display." 

"  Girls  like  that  Morle  should  be  manacled,"  she  said. 

' '  And  I,  for  one,  congratulate  myself  that  there  was, 
as  you  call  it,  a  display — a  display  of  the  finest  resolu 
tion  I  have  ever  seen  in  a  young  girl,"  said  Dexter,  warm 
ly.  ' '  Miss  Douglas  was  not  even  sure  that  the  little  tree 
was  firm ;  and  of  course  she  could  not  tell  how  long  it 
would  take  us  to  come." 

"They  all  assisted,  I  understand,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn, 
impassively. 

' '  They  all  assisted  afterward.  But  not  one  of  them 
would  have  taken  her  place.  Miss  Morle  seized  her 
wrist  immediately,  and  with  the  grasp  of  a  vise.  They 
must  inevitably  have  gone  over  together." 

"Well,  well;  that  is  enough,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Van- 
horn.  "We  will  drive  home  now,"  she  added,  giving 
her  orders  as  though  both  the  carriage  and  its  owner  were 
her  own  property. 

When  she  had  been  assisted  into  her  place,  and  Anne 
had  taken  her  seat  beside  her,  Heathcote,  who  had  not 
spoken  to  his  fellow-rescuer  since  they  reached  level 
ground,  came  forward  to  the  carriage  door,  with  his  arm 
in  its  ribbon  sling,  and  offered  his  hand.  He  said  only  a 
word  or  two ;  but,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  Anne  blushed — 
blushed  suddenly  and  vividly.  She  was  realizing  for 
the  first  time  how  she  must  have  looked  to  him,  hanging 
in  her  cramped  position,  with  crimson  face  and  wild  fall 
ing  hair. 


ANNE.  221 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"So  on  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue 
All  kinds  of  arguments  and  questions  deep." 

— SHAKSPEARE. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  so  much  talking  ?     Is  not  this  wild  rose  sweet 
without  a  comment  ?" — HAZLITT. 

EARLY  the  next  morning  Miss  Vanhorn,  accompanied 
by  her  niece,  drove  off  on  an  all-day  botanizing  expedi 
tion.  Miss  Vanhorn  understood  the  worth  of  being  miss 
ed.  At  sunset  she  returned;  and  the  girl  she  brought 
back  with  her  was  on  the  verge  of  despair.  For  the  old 
woman  had  spent  the  hours  in  making  her  doubt  herself 
in  every  possible  way,  besides  covering  her  with  ridicule 
concerning  the  occurrences  of  the  day  before.  It  was 
late  when^they  entered  the  old  ball-room,  Anne  looking 
newly  youthful  and  painfully  shy ;  as  they  crossed  the 
floor  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  Dexter  was  dancing 
with  Rachel,  whose  soft  arms  were  visible  under  her 
black  gauze,  encircled  with  bands  of  old  gold.  Anne  was 
dressed  in  a  thick  white  linen  fabric  (Miss  Vanhorn  hav 
ing  herself  selected  the  dress  and  ordered  her  to  wear  it), 
and  appeared  more  like  a  school-girl  than  ever.  Miss 
Vanhorn,  raising  her  eye-glass,  had  selected  her  position 
011  entering,  like  a  general  on  the  field :  Anne  was  placed 
next  to  Isabel  on  the  wooden  bench  that  ran  round  the 
room.  And  immediately  Miss  Varce  seemed  to  have 
grown  suddenly  old.  In  addition,  her  blonde  beauty 
was  now  seen  to  be  heightened  by  art.  Isabel  herself  did 
not  dream  of  this.  Hardly  any  woman,  whose  toilet  is 
a  study,  can  comprehend  beauty  in  unattractive  unfash 
ionable  attire.  So  she  kept  her  seat  unconsciously,  sure  ^ 
of  her  Paris  draperies,  while  the  superb  youth  of  Anne,  / 
heightened  by  the  simplicity  of  the  garb  she  wore,  re 
duced  the  other  woman,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  all  the! 
men  present,  to  the  temporary  rank  of  a  faded  wax  doll. 


222  ANNE. 

Dexter  soon  came  up  and  asked  Anne  to  dance.  She 
replied,  in  a  low  voice  and  without  looking  up,  that  she 
would  rather  not ;  her  arm  was  still  painful. 

"  Go,"  said  Miss  Vaiihorn,  overhearing-,  "  and  do  not  be 
absurd  about  your  arm.  I  dare  say  Miss  Morle's  aches 
quite  as  badly."  She  was  almost  always  severe  with  her 
niece  in  Dexter's  presence :  could  it  have  been  that  she 
wished  to  excite  his  sympathy  ? 

Anne  rose  in  silence ;  they  did  not  dance,  but,  after  walk 
ing  up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twice,  went  out  on  the 
piazza.  The  wTindoAvs  were  open :  it  was  the  custom  to  sit 
here  and  look  through  at  the  dancers  within.  They  sat 
down  near  a  window. 

' '  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  until  now,  Miss  Doug 
las,  to  tell  you  how  deeply  I  have  admired  your  wonderful 
courage,"  began  Dexter. 

"Oh,  pray  do  not  speak  of  it,"  said  Anne,  with  in 
tense  embarrassment.  For  Miss  Vaiihorn  had  harried 
her  niece  so  successfully  during  the  long  day,  that  the  girl 
really  believed  that  she  had  overstepped  not  only  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  but  the  limits  of  modesty  as  well. 

"But  I  must,"  said  Dexter.  "In  the  life  I  have  lived, 
Miss  Douglas,  I  have  seen  women  of  all  classes,  and  sever 
al  times  have  been  with  women  in  moments  of  peril — on 
the  plains  during  an  Indian  attack,  at  the  mines  after  an 
explosion,  and  once  on  a  sinking  steamer.  Only  one 
showed  anything  like  your  quick  courage  of  yesterday, 
and  she  was  a  mother  who  showed  it  for  her  child.  You 
did  your  brave  deed  for  a  stranger ;  and  you  seem,  to  my 
eyes  at  least,  hardly  more  than  a  child  yourself.  It  is 
but  another  proof  of  the  innate  nobility  of  our  human 
nature,  and  I,  an  enthusiast  in  such  matters,  beg  you  to 
let  me  personally  thank  you  for  the  privilege  of  seeing 
your  noble  act."  He  put  out  his  hand,  took  hers,  and 
pressed  it  cordially. 

It  was  a  set  speech,  perhaps — Dexter  made  set  speeches ; 
but  it  was  cordial  and  sincere.  Anne,  much  comforted 
by  this  view  of  her  impulsive  action,  looked  at  him  with 
thankfulness.  This  was  different  from  Miss  Vanhorn's 
itlea  of  it;  different  and  better. 


ANNE.  223 

4 '  I  once  helped  one  of  my  little  brothers,  who  had  fall 
en  over  a  cliff,  in  much  the  same  way,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  sigh  of  relief.  ' '  I  am  glad  you  think  it  was  ex 
cusable." 

* '  Excusable  ?  It  was  superb, "  said  Dexter.  ' '  And  per 
mit  me  to  add,  too,  that  I  am  a  better  judge  of  heroism 
than  the  people  here,  who  belong,  most  of  them,  to  a 
small,  prejudiced,  and  I  might  say  ignorant,  class.  They 
have  no  more  idea  of  heroism,  of  anything  broad  and  lib 
eral,  or  of  the  country  at  large,  than  so  many  canary- 
birds  born  and  bred  in  a  cage.  They  ridicule  the  mere 
idea  of  being  in  earnest  about  anything  in  this  ridiculous 
world.  Yet  the  world  is  not  so  ridiculous  as  they  think, 
and  earnestness  carries  with  it  a  tremendous  weight  some 
times.  All  the  great  deeds  of  which  we  have  record  have 
been  done  by  earnest  beliefs  and  earnest  enthusiasms, 
even  though  mistaken  ones.  It  is  easy  enough,  by  care 
fully  abstaining  from  doing  anything  one's  self,  to  main 
tain  the  position  of  ridiculing  the  attempts  of  others;  but 
it  is  more  than  probable — in  fact  it  is  almost  certain — that 
those  very  persons  who  ridicule  and  criticise  could  not 
themselves  do  the  very  least  of  those  deeds,  attain  the  very 
lowest  of  those  successes,  which  afford  them  so  much  en 
tertainment  in  others." 

So  spoke  Dexter ;  and  not  without  a  tinge  of  bitterness, 
which  he  disguised  as  scorn.  A  little  of  the  indifference 
to  outside  opinion  which  characterized  the  very  class  of 
whom  he  spoke  would  have  made  him  a  contented,  as  he 
already  was  a  successful,  man.  But  there  was  a  surface 
of  personal  vanity  over  his  better  qualities  which  led  him 
to  desire  a  tribute  of  universal  liking;  and  this  is  the 
tribute  the  class  referred  to  always  refuses — to  the  person 
who  appears  to  seek  it. 

"But,  in  spite  of  ridicule,  self-sacrifice  is  still  hero 
ic,  faith  in  our  humanity  still  beautiful,  and  courage 
still  dear,  to  all  hearts  that  have  true  nobility,"  he 
continued.  Then  it  struck  him  that  he  was  general 
izing  too  much,  feminine  minds  always  preferring  a 
personal  application.  "I  would  rather  have  a  girl 
who  was  brave  and  truthful  for  my  wife  than  the  most 


224  ANNE. 

beautiful  woman  on  t?arth,"  lie  said,  with  the  quick, 
sudden  utterance  he  used  when  he  wished  to  appear  im 
pulsive. 

' l  But  beautiful  women  can  be  truthful  too,"  said  Anne, 
viewing  the  subject  impartially,  with  no  realization  of 
any  application  to  herself. 

"  Can,  but  rarely  are.  I  have,  however,  known — that 
is,  I  think  I  now  know — owe,"  he  added,  with  quiet  em 
phasis,  coming  round  011  another  tack. 

"I  hope  you  do,"  said  Anne;  "and  more  than  one. 
Else  your  acquaintance  must  be  limited."  As  she  spoke, 
the  music  sounded  forth  within,  and  forgetting  the  sub 
ject  altogether,  she  turned  with  girlish  interest  to  watch 
the  dancers. 

Dexter  almost  laughed  aloud  to  hiime?f  in  his  shad 
owed  corner,  she  was  so  unconscious.  He  had  not 
thought  her  beautiful,  save  for  the  perfection  of  her 
youthful  bloom  ;  but  now  he  suddenly  began  to  dis 
cover  the  purity  of  her  profile,  and  the  graceful  shape 
of 'her  head,  outlined  against  the  lighted  window.  His 
taste,  however,  was  not  for  youthful  simplicity;  he  pre 
ferred  beauty  more  ripened,  and  heightened  by  art. 
Having  lived  among  the  Indians  in  reality,  the  true 
children  of  nature,  he  had  none  of  those  dreams  of  ideal 
perfection  in  a  brown  skin  and  in  the  wilderness  which 
haunt  the  eyes  of  dwellers  in  cities,  and  mislead  even 
the  artist.  To  him  Eachel  in  her  black  floating  laces, 
and  Helen  Lorrington  in  her  shimmering  silks,  were  far 
more  beautiful  than  an  Indian  girl  in  her  calico  skirt 
could  possibly  be.  But — Aime  was  certainly  very  fair 
and  sweet. 

"Of  what  were  you  thinking,  Miss  Douglas,  during 
the  minutes  you  hung  suspended  over  that  abyss  ?"  he 
asked,  moving  so  that  he  could  rest  his  head  on  his  hand, 
and  thus  look  at  her  more  steadily. 

Anne  turned.  For  she  always  looked  directly  at  the 
person  who  spoke  to  her,  having  none  of  those  side  glances, 
tableaux  of  sweeping  eyelashes,  and  willful  little  motions 
which  belong  to  most  pretty  girls.  She  turned.  And 
now  Dexter  was  surprised  to  see  how  she  was  blushing, 


ANNE.  225 

so  deeply  and  slowly  that  it  must  have  been  physically 
painful. 

"She  is  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  my  manner  at 
last,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  self-gratulation.  Then  he 
added,  in  a  lower  voice,  "/  was  thinking  only  of  you; 
and  what  a  brutal  sacrifice  it  would  be  if  your  life  should 
be  given  for  that  other!" 

"  Valeria  is  a  good  girl,  I  think,"  said  Anne,  re 
covering  herself,  and  answering  as  impersonally  as 
though  he  had  neither  lowered  his  voice  nor  thrown 
any  intensity  into  his  eyes.  "However,  none  of  the 
ladies  here  approach  Helen  —  Mrs.  Lorrington  ;  and  I 
am  sure  you  agree  with  me  in  thinking  so,  Mr.  Dex- 
-ter." 

"  You  are  loyal  to  your  friend." 

"No  one  has  been  so  kind  to  me;  I  both  love  her  and 
warmly  admire  her.  How  I  hope  she  may  come  soon ! 
And  when  she  does,  as  I  can  not  help  loving  to  be  with 
her,  I  suppose  I  shall  see  a  great  deal  more  of  you"  said 
the  girl,  smiling,  and  in  her  own  mind  addressing  the 
long-devoted  Knight-errant. 

"Shall  you?"  thought  Dexter,  not  a  little  piqued  by 
her  readiness  to  yield  him  even  to  her  friend.  "I  will 
see  that  you  do  not  long  continue  quite  so  indifferent,"  he 
added  to  himself,  with  determination.  Then,  in  pursu 
ance  of  this,  he  decided  to  go  in  and  dance  with  some 
one  else ;  that  should  be  a  first  step. 

' '  I  believe  I  am  engaged  to  Mrs.  Bannert  for  the  next 
dance,"  he  said,  regretfully.  "Shall  I  take  you  in  ?" 

"No;  please  let  me  stay  here  a  while.  My  arm  re 
ally  aches  dully  all  the  time,  and  the  fresh  air  is  plea 
sant." 

"And  if  Miss  Vanhorn  should  ask  ?" 

M  Tell  her  where  I  am." 

"I  will,"  answered  Dexter.  And  he  fully  intended  to 
do  it  in  any  case.  He  liked,  when  she  was  not  with  him, 
to  haye  Anne  safely  under  her  grandaunt's  watchful  vig 
ilance,  not  exactly  with  the  spirit  of  the  dog  in  the  man 
ger,  but  something  like  it.  He  was  conscious,  also,  that 
he  possessed  the  chaperon's  especial  favor,  and  he  did  not 

15 


226  ANNE. 

intend  to  forfeit  it;  he  wished  to  use  it  for  his  own  pur 
poses. 

But  Rachel  marred  his  intention  by  crossing  it  with  one 
of  her  own. 

Dexter  admired  Mrs.  Bamiert.  He  could  not  help  it. 
When  she  took  his  arm,  he  was  for  the  time  being  hers. 
She  knew  this,  and  being  piqued  by  some  neglect  of  Heath- 
cote's,  she  met  the  other  man  at  the  door,  and  made  him 
think,  without  saying  it,  that  she  wished  to  be  with  him 
a  while  on  the  moon-lit  piazza ;  for  Heathcote  was  there. 
Dexter  obeyed.  And  thus  it  happened  that  Miss  Van- 
horn  was  not  told  at  all ;  but  supposing  that  her  niece  was 
still  with  the  escort  she  had  herself  selected,  the  fine-look 
ing  owner  of  mines  and  mills,  the  future  Senator,  the 
"type  of  American  success,"  she  rested  mistakenly  con 
tent,  and  spent  the  time  agreeably  in  making  old  Mrs. 
Bannert's  life  a  temporary  fever  by  relating  to  her  in  de 
tail  some  old  buried  scandals  respecting  the  departed 
Baiinert,  pretending  to  have  forgotten  entirely  the  chief 
actor's  name. 

In  the  mean  while  Heathcote,  sauntering  along  the  pi 
azza  in  his  turn,  came  upon  Anne  sitting  alone  by  the 
window,  and  dropped  into  the  vacant  place  beside  her. 
He  said  a  few  words,  playing  with  the  fringe  of  Rachel's 
sash,  which  he  still  wore,  "her  colors, "some  one  remark 
ed,  but  made  no  allusion  to  the  occurrences  of  the  previous 
day.  What  he  said  was  unimportant,  but  he  looked  at 
her  rather  steadily,  and  she  was  conscious  of  his  glance. 
In  truth,  he  was  merely  noting  the  effect  of  her  head  and 
throat  against  the  lighted  window,  as  Dexter  had  done, 
the  outline  being  very  distinct  and  lovely,  a  profile  framed 
in  light ;  but  she  thought  it  was  something  different.  A 
painful  timidity  again  seized  her ;  instead  of  blushing,  she 
turned  pale,  and  with  difficulty  answered  clearly.  "  He 
does  not  praise  me,"  she  thought.  "He  does  not  say 
that  what  I  did  yesterday  was  greater  than  anything 
among  Indians  and  mines  and  oil  sinking  steamers.  He 
is  laughing  at  me.  Graiidauiit  was  right,  and  no  doubt 
he  thinks  me  a  bold,  forward  girl  who  tried  to  make  a 
sensation." 


HE   WAS   MERELY    NOTING    THE    EFFECT." 


ANNE.  227 

Heathcote  made  another  unimportant  remark,  but 
Anne,  being  now  nervously  sensitive,  took  it  as  having  a 
second  meaning.  She  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  the 
burning  tears  that  were  rising;  but  although  unshed, 
Heathcote  saw  them.  His  observation  was  instantane 
ous  where  women  were  concerned ;  not  so  much  active 
as  intuitive.  He  had  no  idea  what  was  the  matter  with 
her :  this  was  the  second  inexplicable  appearance  of  tears. 
But  it  would  take  more  than  such  little  damp  occasions 
to  disconcert  him ;  and  rather  at  random,  but  with  sympa 
thy  and  even  tenderness  in  his  voice,  he  said,  soothingly, 
"  Do  not  mind  it,"  "it"  of  course  representing  whatever 
she  pleased.  Then,  as  the  drops  fell,  "Why,  you  poor 
child,  you  are  really  in  trouble,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand 
and  holding  it  in  his.  Then,  after  a  moment:  "  I  do  not 
know,  of  course,  what  it  is  that  distresses  you,  but  I  too, 
although  ignorant,  am  distressed  by  it  also.  For  since 
yesterday,  Anne,  you  have  occupied  a  place  in  my  mem 
ory  which  will  never  give  you  up.  You  will  be  an  image 
there  forever." 

It  was  not  much,  after  all ;  most  improbable  was  it  that 
any  of  those  who  saw  her  risk  her  life  that  day  would  soon 
forget  her.  Yet  there  was  something  in  the  glance  of  his 
eye  and  in  the  clasp  of  his  hand  that  soothed  Anne  inex 
pressibly.  She  never  again  cared  what  people  thought 
of  her  "boyish  freak"  (so  Miss  Vanhorn  termed  it),  but 
laid  the  whole  memory  away,  embalmed  shyly  in  sweet 
odors  forever. 

Other  persons  now  came  in  sight.  "Shall  we  walk ?" 
said  Heathcote.  They  rose ;  she  took  his  arm.  He  did 
not  lead  her  out  to  the  shadowed  path  below  the  piazza ; 
they  remained  all  the  time  among  the  lights  and  passing 
strollers.  Their  conversation  was  inconclusive  and  uii- 
momentous,  without  a  tinge  of  novel  interest  or  brill 
iancy  ;  not  one  sentence  would  have  been  worth  repeat 
ing.  Yet  such  as  it  was,  with  its  few  words  and  many 
silences  which  the  man  of  the  world  did  not  exert  him 
self  to  break,  it  seemed  to  establish  a  closer  acquaintance 
between  them  than  eloquence  could  have  done.  At  least 
it  was  so  with  Anne,  although  she  did  not  define  It. 


228  ANNE. 

Heathcote  had  no  need  to  define ;  it  was  an  old  story  with 
him. 

As  the  second  dance  ended,  he  took  her  round,  as 
though  by  chance,  to  the  other  side  of  the  piazza,  where 
he  knew  Rachel  was  sitting  with  Mr.  Dexter.  Here  he 
skillfully  changed  companions,  simply  by  one  or  two  of 
his  glances.  For  Rachel  understood  from  them  that  he 
was  bored,  repentant,  and  lonely;  and  once  convinced 
of  this,  she  immediately  executed  the  manoeuvre  herself, 
with  the  woman's  usual  means  of  natural  little  phrases 
and  changes  of  position,  Heathcote  meanwhile  standing 
passive  until  it  was  all  done.  Heathcote  generally  stood 
passive.  But  Dexter  often  had  the  appearance  of  exert 
ing  himself  and  arranging  things. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Miss  Vanhorn  saw  Anne  re-enter 
with  the  same  escort  who  had  taken  her  forth. 

Another  week  passed,  and  another.  Various  scenes  in 
the  little  dramas  played  by  the  different  persons  present 
followed  each  other  with  more  or  less  notice,  more  or 
less  success.  One  side  of  Dexter's  nature  was  complete 
ly  fascinated  with  Rachel  Bannert  —  with  her  beauty, 
which  a  saint-worshipper  would  have  denied,  although 
why  saintliness  should  be  a  matter  of  blonde  hair  re 
mains  undiscovered ;  with  her  dress  and  grace  of  manner ; 
with  her  undoubted  position  in  that  narrow  circle  which 
he  wished  to  enter  even  while  condemning — perhaps 
merely  to  conquer  it  and  turn  away  again.  His  rival  with 
Rachel  was  Heathcote ;  he  had  discovered  that.  He  was 
conscious  that  he  detested  Heathcote.  While  thus  secret 
ly  interested  in  Rachel,  he  yet  found  time,  however,  to 
give  a  portion  of  each  day  to  Anne ;  he  did  this  partly 
from  policy  and  partly  from  jealous  annoyance.  For 
here  too  he  found  the  other  man.  Heathcote,  in  truth, 
seemed  to  be  amusing  himself  in  much  the  same  way.  If 
Dexter  waltzed  with  Rachel,  Heathcote  offered  his  arm  to 
Anne  and  took  her  out  on  the  piazza ;  if  Dexter  walked 
with  Anne  there,  Heathcote  took  Rachel  into  the  rose- 
sceiited  dusky  garden.  But  Dexter  had  Miss  Vanhorn's 
favor,  if  that  was  anything.  She  went  to  drive  with 
him  and  took  Anne ;  she  allowed  him  to  accompany  them 


ANNE.  221) 

on  their  botanizing-  expeditions ;  she  talked  to  him,  and 
even  listened  to  his  descriptions  of  his  life  and  adventures. 
In  reality  she  cared  no  more  for  him  than  for  a  Choctaw ; 
no  more  for  his  life  than  for  that  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 
But  he  was  a  rich  man,  and  he  would  do  for  Anne,  who 
was  not  a  Vanhorn,  but  merely  a  Doug-las.  He  had 
showed  some  liking  for  the  girl;  the  affair  should  be  en 
couraged  and  clinched.  She,  Katharine  Vanhorn,  would 
clinch  it.  He  must  be  a  very  different  man  from  the  di 
agnosis  she  had  made  up  of  him  if  he  did  not  yield  to  her 
clinching. 

During  these  weeks,  therefore,  there  had  been  many 
long  conversations  between  Anne  and  Mr.  Dexter ;  they 
had  talked  on  many  subjects  appropriate  to  the  occasion 
— Dexter  was  always  appropriate.  He  had  quoted  pages 
of  poetry,  and  he  quoted  well.  He  had,  like  Othello,  re 
lated  his  adventures,  and  they  were  thrilling  and  true. 
Then,  when  more  sure  of  her,  he  had  turned  the  conver 
sation  upon  herself.  It  is  a  fascinating  subject — one's  self ! 
Anne  touched  it  timidly  here  and  there,  but,  never  having 
had  the  habit  or  even  the  knowledge  of  self-analysis,  she 
was  more  uncomfortable  than  pleased,  after  all,  and  in 
clined  mentally  to  run  away.  She  did  not  know  herself 
whether  she  had  more  imagination  than  timidity,  wheth 
er  conscientiousness  was  more  developed  in  her  than 
ideality,  or  whether,  if  obliged  to  choose  between  saving 
the  life  of  a  brother  or  a  husband,  she  would  choose  the 
former  or  the  latter.  Dexter  had  to  drag  her  opinions  of 
her  own  character  from  her  almost  by  main  strength. 
But  he  persisted.  He  had  never  known  an  imaginative 
young  girl  at  the  age  when  all  things  are  problems  to  her 
who  was  not  secretly,  often  openly,  fascinated  by  a  sym 
pathetic  research  into  her  own  timid  little  characteris 
tics,  opening  like  buds  within  her  one  by  one.  Dexter's 
theory  was  correct,  his  rule  a  good  one  probably  in  nine 
ty-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred;  only — Anne  was  the 
hundredth.  She  began  to  be  afraid  of  him  as  he  came 
toward  her,  kind,  smiling,  with  his  invisible  air  of  suc 
cess  about  him,  ready  for  one  of  their  long  conversations. 
Yet  certainly  he  was  as  pleasant  a  companion  as  a  some- 


230  ANNE. 

what  lonely  young1  girl,  isolated  at  a  place  like  Caryl's, 
could  wish  for;  at  least  that  is  what  every  one  would 
have  said. 

During-  these  weeks  there  had  been  110  long  talks  with 
Heathcote.  Miss  Vanhorn  did  not  ask  him  to  accompany 
them  to  the  woods ;  she  did  not  utter  to  him  the  initiative 
word  in  passing  which  gives  the  opportunity.  Still,  there 
had  been  chance  meetings  and  chance  words,  of  course — 
five-minute  strolls  on  the  piazza,  five-minute  looks  at  the 
sunset  or  at  the  stars,  in  the  pauses  between  the  dances. 
But  where  Heathcote  took  a  minute,  Dexter  had,  if  he 
chose,  an  hour. 

Although  in  one  way  now  so  idle,  Anne  seemed  to  her 
self  never  to  have  been  so  busy  before.  Miss  Vanhorn 
kept  her  at  work  upon  plants  through  a  large  portion  of 
each  day,  and  required  her  to  be  promptly  ready  upon 
all  other  occasions.  She  barely  found  time  to  write  to 
Miss  Lois,  who  was  spending  the  summer  in  a  state  be 
twixt  anger  and  joy,  veering  one  way  by  reason,  the  oth 
er  by  wrath,  yet  unable  to  refrain  entirely  from  satisfac 
tion  over  the  new  clothes  for  the  children  which  Miss 
Vanhorn's  money  had  enabled  her  to  buy.  The  allow 
ance  was  paid  in  advance ;  and  it  made  Anne  light-heart 
ed  whenever  she  thought,  as  she  did  daily,  of  the  com 
forts  it  gave  to  those  she  loved.  To  East,  Anne  wrote  in 
the  early  morning,  her  only  free  time.  East  was  now 
on  the  island,  but  he  was  to  go  in  a  few  days.  This 
statement,  continually  repeated,  like  lawyers'  notices  of 
sales  postponed  from  date  to  date,  had  lasted  all  summer, 
and  still  lasted.  He  had  written  to  Anne  as  usual,  until 
Miss  Vanhorn,  although  without  naming  him,  had  tartly 
forbidden  "so  many  letters."  Then  Anne  asked  him  to 
write  less  frequently,  and  he  obeyed.  She,  however,  con 
tinued  to  write  herself  as  before,  describing^  her  life  at 
Caryl's,  while  he  answered  (as  often  as  he  was  allowed), 
telling  of  his  plans,  and  complaining  that  they  were  to  be 
separated  so  long.  But  he  was  going  to  the  far  West, 
and  there  he  should  soon  win  a  home  for  her.  He  count 
ed  the  days  till  that  happy  time. 

And  then  Anne  would  sit  and  dream  of  the  island :  she 


ANNE.  231 

saw  the  old  house,  East,  and  the  children,  Miss  Lois's  thin, 
energetic  face,  the  blue  Straits,  the  white  fort,  and  the 
little  inclosure  on  the  heights  where  were  the  two  graves. 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  heard  their  voices ;  she  told  them 
all  she  hoped.  Only  this  one  more  winter,  and  then-she 
could  see  them  again,  send  them  help,  and  perhaps  have 
one  of  the  children  with  her.  And  then,  the  year  after— 
But  here  Miss  Vanhorn's  voice  calling  her  name  broke 
the  vision,  and  with  a  sigh  she  returned  to  Caryl's  again. 

Helen's  letters  had  ceased;  but  Anne  jotted  down  a 
faithful  record  of  the  events  of  the  days  for  her  inspec 
tion  when  she  came.  Eumors  varied  at  Caryl's  respect 
ing  Mrs.  Lorrington.  Now  her  grandfather  had  died, 
and  left  her  everything;  and  now  he  had  miraculously 
recovered,  and  deeded  his  fortune  to  charitable  institu 
tions.  Now  he  had  existed  without  nourishment  for 
weeks,  and  now  he  had  the  appetite  of  ten,  and  exhibited 
the  capabilities  of  a  second  Methuselah.  But  in  the  mean 
time  Helen  was  still  absent.  Under  these  circumstances, 
Anne,  if  she  had  been  older,  and  desirous,  might  have  col 
lected  voluminous  expressions  of  opinion  as  to  the  qual 
ities,  beauty,  and  history,  past  and  present,  of  the  absent 
one  from  her  dearest  friends  on  earth.  But  the  dearest 
friends  on  earth  had  not  the  habit  of  talking  to  this  young 
girl  as  a  companion  and  equal ;  to  them  she  was  simply 
that  "  sweet  child,"  that  "dear  fresh-faced  school -girl," 
to  whom  they  confided  only  amiable  platitudes.  So 
Anne  continued  to  hold  fast  undisturbed  her  belief  in  her 
beautiful  Helen — that  strong,  grateful,  reverent  feeling 
which  a  young  girl  often  cherishes  for  an  older  woman 
who  is  kind  to  her. 

One  still,  hazy  morning  Miss  Vanhorn  announced  her 
programme  for  the  day.  She  intended  to  drive  over  to 
the  county  town,  and  Anne  was  to  go  with  her  six  miles 
of  the  distance,  and  be  left  at  a  certain  glen,  where  there 
was  a  country  saw-mill.  They  had  been  there  together 
several  times,  and  had  made  acquaintance  with  the  saw- 
miller,  his  wife,  and  his  brood  of  white-headed  children. 
The  object  of  the  present  visit  was  a  certain  fern — the 
Camptosorus,  or  walking-leaf — which  Miss  Vanhorn  had 


232  ANNE. 

recently  learned  grew  there,  or  at  least  had  grown  there 
within  the  memory  of  living  botanists.  That  was  enough. 
Anne  was  to  search  for  the  plant  unflinchingly  (the  pres 
ence  of  the  mill  family  being  a  sufficient  protection) 
throughout  the  entire  day,  and  be  in  waiting  at  the  main- 
road  crossing  at  sunset,  when  her  grandaunt's  carriage 
would  stop  on  its  return  home.  In  order  that  there 
might  be  no  mistake  as  to  the  time,  she  wras  allowed  to 
wear  one  of  Miss  Vanhorn's  watches.  There  were  four 
teen  of  them,  all  heirlooms,  all  either  wildly  too  fast  in, 
their  motions  or  hopelessly  too  slow,  so  that  the  gift  was 
an  embarrassing  one.  Anne  knew  that  if  she  relied  upon 
the  one  intrusted  to  her  care,  she  would  be  obliged  to 
spend  about  three  hours  at  the  crossing  to  allow  for  the 
variations  in  one  direction  or  the  other  which  might  er 
ratically  attack  it  during  the  day.  But  her  hope  lay  in 
the  saw-miller's  bright-faced  little  Yankee  clock.  At 
their  early  breakfast  she  prepared  a  lunch  for  herself  in 
a  small  basket,  and  before  Caryl's  had  fairly  awakened, 
the  old  coupe  rolled  away  from  the  door,  bearing  aunt 
and  niece  into  the  green  country.  When  they  reached 
the  wooded  hills  at  the  end  of  the  six  miles,  Anne  de 
scended  with  her  basket,  her  digging  trowel,  and  her  tin 
plant  case.  She  was  to  go  over  every  inch  of  the  saw- 
miller's  ravine,  and  find  that  fern,  living  or  dead.  Miss 
Vanhorn  said  this,  and  she  meant  the  plant;  but  it  sound 
ed  as  if  she  meant  Anne.  With  renewed  warnings  as 
to  care  and  diligence,  she  drove  on,  and  Anne  was  left 
alone.  It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  a  breathless  August  day. 
She  hastened  up  the  little  path  toward  the  saw-mill,  glad 
to  enter  the  wood  and  escape  the  heat  of  the  sun.  She 
now  walked  more  slowly,  and  looked  right  and  left  for 
the  fern;  it  was  not  there,  probably,  so  near  the  light, 
but  she  had  conscientiously  determined  to  lose  no  inch 
of  the  allotted  ground.  Owing  to  this  slow  search,  half 
an  hour  had  passed  when  she  reached  the  mill.  She  had 
perceived  for  some  time  that  it  was  not  in  motion ;  there 
was  no  hum  of  the  saw,  110  harsh  cry  of  the  rent  boards : 
she  said  to  herself  that  the  miller  was  getting  a  great  log 
in  place  on  the  little  cart  to  be  drawn  up  the  tramway. 


ANNE.  233 

But  when  she  reached  the  spot,  the  miller  was  not  there  ; 
the  mill  was  closed,  and  only  the  peculiar  fresh  odor  of  the 
logs  recently  sawn  asunder  told  that  but  a  short  time  be 
fore  the  saw  had  been  in  motion.  She  went  on  to  the 
door  of  the  little  house,  and  knocked;  no  one  answered. 
Standing  on  tiptoe,  she  peeped  in  through  the  low  win- 
do  w,  and  saw  that  the  rooms  were  empty,  and  in  that 
shining  order  that  betokens  the  housewife's  absence.  Re 
turning  to  the  mill,  she  walked  up  the  tramway ;  a  bit 
of  paper,  for  the  information  of  chance  customers,  was 
pinned  to  the  latch:  "  All  hands  gone  to  the  sirkus.  Home 
at  sunset. "  She  sat  down,  took  off  her  straw  hat,  and  con 
sidered  what  to  do. 

Three  hundred  and  sixty-four  days  of  that  year  Saw- 
miller  Pike,  his  wife,  his  four  children,  and  his  hired 
man,  one  or  all  of  them,  were  on  that  spot ;  their  one  ab 
sence  chance  decreed  should  be  on  this  particular  August 
Thursday  when  Anne  Douglas  came  there  to  spend  the 
day.  She  was  not  afraid ;  it  was  a  quiet  rural  neighbor 
hood  without  beggars  or  tramps.  Her  gran  daunt  would 
not  return  until  sunset.  She  decided  to  look  for  the  fern, 
and  if  she  found  it  within  an  hour  or  two,  to  walk  home, 
and  send  a  boy  back  on  horseback  to  wait  for  Miss  Van- 
horn.  If  she  did  not  find  it  before  afternoon,  she  would 
wait  for  the  carriage,  according  to  agreement.  Hanging 
her  basket  and  shawl  on  a  tree  branch  near  the  mill,  she 
entered  the  ravine,  and  was  soon  hidden  in  its  green  re 
cesses.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down  the  steep  rocky 
sides  she  climbed,  her  tin  case  swinging  from  her  shoul 
der,  her  trowel  in  her  belt;  she  neglected  no  spot,  and 
her  track,  if  it  had  been  visible,  would  have  shown  itself 
almost  as  regular  as  the  web  of  the  geometric  spider.  Up 
and  down,  up  and  down,  from  the  head  of  the  ravine  to 
its  foot  on  one  side :  nothing.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  seen  the  fronds  and  curled  crosiers  of  a  thousand 
ferns.  Her  eyes  were  tired,  and  she  threw  herself  down 
on  a  mossy  bank  not  far  from  the  mill  to  rest  a  moment. 
There  was  110  use  in  looking  at  the  watch ;  still,  she  did  it, 
and  decided  that  it  was  either  half  past  eleven  or  half 
past  three.  The  remaining  side  of  the  ravine  gazed  at 


234  ANNE. 

her  steadily ;  she  Imew  that  she  must  clamber  over  every 
inch  of  those  rocks  also.  She  sighed,  hathed  her  flushed 
cheeks  in  the  brook,  took  down  her  hair,  and  braided  it 
in  two  long  school-girl  braids,  which  hung  down  below 
her  waist ;  then  she  tied  her  straw  hat  to  a  branch,  pinned 
her  neck-tie  on  the  brim,  took  off  her  linen  cuffs,  and 
laid  them  within  together  with  her  gloves,  and  leaving 
the  tin  plant  case  and  the  trowel  on  the  bank,  started  on 
her  search.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  peering  into 
every  cranny,  standing  on  next  to  nothing,  swinging 
herself  from  rock  to  rock ;  making  acquaintance  with  sev 
eral  very  unpleasant  rock  spiders,  and  hastily  construct 
ing  bridges  for  them  of  small  twigs,  so  that  they  could 
cross  from  her  skirt  to  their  home  ledge  in  safety ;  find 
ing  a  trickling  spring,  and  drinking  from  it ;  now  half 
way  down  the  ravine,  now  three-quarters;  and  still  no 
walking-leaf.  She  sat  down  on  a  jutting  crag  to  take 
breath  an  instant,  and  watched  a  bird  on  a  tree  branch 
near  by.  He  was  one  of  those  little  brown  songsters  that 
sing  as  follows : 

.: 

Seeing  her  watching  him,  he  now  chanted  his  little  an 
them  in  his  best  style. 

"Very  well,"  said  Anne,  aloud. 

"Oh  no;  only  so-so,"  said  a  voice  below.  She  look 
ed  down,  startled  It  was  Ward  Heathcote. 


ANNE.  235 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"From  beginning  to  end  it  was  all  undeniable  nonsense;  but  Hot 
necessarily  the  worse  for  that." — NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

HEATHCOTE  was  sitting  under  a  tree  by  the  brook- 
side,  as  though  he  had  never  been  anywhere  else. 

"When  did  you  come  ?"  said  Anne,  looking  down  from 
her  perch. 

"Fifteen  minutes  or  so  ago,"  he  answered,  looking 
up  from  his  couch. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?" 

"To  see  you,  of  course." 

"  No ;  I  can  not  believe  that.     The  day  is  too  warm." 

"  You,  at  any  rate,  look  cool  enough." 

"It  is  cool  up  here  among  the  rocks ;  but  it  must  be 
intense  out  on  the  high-road." 

"I  did  not  come  by  the  high-road." 

"  How,  then,  did  you  come  ?" 

"Across  the  fields." 

"Why?" 

' '  Miss  Douglas,  were  you  born  in  New  Hampshire  t 
As  I  can  not  call  all  this  information  you  require  up 
hill,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  come  up  myself." 

As  he  rose,  Anne  saw  that  he  was  laden  with  her  din 
ner  basket  and  shawl,  her  plant  case  and  trowel,  and 
her  straw  hat  and  its  contents,  which  he  balanced  with 
exaggerated  care.  "  Oh,  leave  them  all  there,"  she  call 
ed  down,  laughingly. 

But  no,  Heathcote  would  not;  he  preferred  to  bring 
them  all  with  him.  When  he  reached  her  rock,  he  grave 
ly  delivered  them  into  her  hands,  and  took  a  seat  beside 
her,  fanning  himself  with  his  hat. 

".And  now,  how  does  it  happen  that  you  are  here  ?"  re 
peated  Anne,  placing  her  possessions  in  different  niches. 

' '  You  insist  ?  Why  not  let  it  pass  for  chance  ?  No  2 
Well,  then,  by  horseback  to  Powell's:  horse  loses  shoe; 


238  ANNE. 

half  lost  in  the  deep  moss ;  but  there !  Heathcote  had  not 
moved;  but  the  shrinking  little  plant  happened  to  have 
placed  itself  exactly  on  a  line  with  his  idle  eyes. 

"  It  is  unfair  that  you  should  find  it  without  stirring-, 
while  I  have  had  such  a  hard  climb  all  in  vain,"  said 
Anne,  carefully  taking  up  the  little  plant,  with  sufficient 
earth  and  moss  to  keep  it  comfortable. 

"  It  is  ever  so,"  replied  her  companion,  lazily,  watching 
the  spirals  of  cigar  smoke  above  his  head:  "wait,  and  in 
time  everything  will  come  to  you.  If  not  in  this  world, 
then  certainly  in  thfe.next,  which  is  the  world  I  have 
selected  for  my  own  best  efforts." 

When  the  fern  was  properly  bedded  in  the  tin  case, 
and  the  cover  closed,  Anne  sat  down  for  a  moment  to  rest. 

"When  shall  we  have  lunch  ?"  asked  the  smoker. 

"Fowl" 

* '  Yes ;  I  am  bitterly  hungry. " 

* '  But  you  said  you  were  only  going  to  stay  a  short  time." 

"  Half  an  hour  longer." 

"  What  time  is  it  now  ?" 

"I  have  110  idea." 

"You  can  look." 

"I  refuse  to  look.     Amiability  has  its  limit." 

' '  I  had  intended  to  walk  home,  if  I  found  the  f em  in 
time,"  said  Anne. 

"Ah?  But  I  think  we  are  going  to  have  a  storm. 
Probably  a  thunder-storm,"  said  Heathcote,  languidly. 

' '  How  do  you  know  ?     And — what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"I  know,  because  I  have  been  watching  that  little 
patch  of  sky  up  there.  As  to  what  we  shall  do — we  can 
try  the  mill." 

They  rose  as  he  spoke.  Anne  took  the  plant  case.  ' '  I 
will  carry  this, "she  said;  "the  walking-leaf  must  be 
humored." 

' '  So  long  as  I  have  the  dinner  basket  I  remain  sweet- 
tempered,"  answered  Heathcote. 

She  put  011  her  hat,  but  her  neck-tie  and  cuffs  were  gone. 

"I  have  them  safe,"  he  said.  "They  are  with  the 
potatoes." 

Reaching  the  mill,  they  tried  the  door,  but  found  it  se« 


ANNE.  239 

curely  fastened.  They  tried  the  house  door  and  windows, 
with  the  same  result.  Unless  they  broke  several  panes 
of  glass  they  could  not  gain  entrance,  and  even  then  it 
was  a  question  whether  Heathcote  would  be  able  to  thrust 
inward  the  strong  oaken  stick  above,  which  held  the  sash 
down. 

"Do  mount  your  horse  and  ride  home,"  urged  Anne. 
1 '  I  shall  be  safe  here,  and  in  danger  of  nothing  worse 
than  a  summer  shower.  I  will  go  back  in  the  ravine  and 
find  a  beech-tree.  Its  close,  strong  little  leaves  will  keep 
off  the  rain  almost  entirely.  Why  should  both  of  us  be 
drenched  ?" 

"  Neither  of  us  shall  be.  Come  with  me,  and  quickly, 
for  the  storm  is  close  upon  us.  There  is  a  little  cave,  or 
rather  hollow  in  the  rock,  not  far  above  the  road ;  I  think 
it  will  shelter  us.  I,  for  one,  have  no  desire  to  be  out  in 
your  '  summer  shower, '  and  ride  home  to  Caryl's  after 
ward  in  a  limp,  blue-stained  condition." 

' '  How  long  will  it  take  us  to  reach  this  cave  ?"  said 
Anne,  hesitating. 

"  Three  minutes,  perhaps." 

"I  suppose  we  had  better  go,  then, "she  said,  slow 
ly.  "But  pray  do  not  take  those  things.  They  will  all 
have  to  be  brought  down  again." 

"They  shall  be,"  said  Heathcote,  leading  the  way  to 
ward  the  road. 

It  was  not  a  long  climb,  but  in  some  places  the  ascent 
was  steep.  A  little  path  was  their  guide  to  the  ' '  cave" — 
a  hollow  in  the  ledge,  which  the  boys  of  the  neighbor 
hood  considered  quite  a  fortress,  a  bandit's  retreat.  A 
rude  ladder  formed  the  front  steps  of  their  rock  nest,  and 
Anne  was  soon  ensconced  within,  her  gray  shawl  making- 
a  carpet  for  them  both.  The  cave  was  about  seven  feet 
in  depth,  and  four  or  five  in  breadth ;  the  rock  roof  was 
high  above  their  heads.  Behind  there  was  a  dark,  deep 
little  recess,  blackened  with  smoke,  which  the  boys  had 
evidently  used  as  an  oven.  The  side  of  the  hill  jutted 
out  slightly  above  them,  and  this,  rather  than  the  seven 
feet  of  depth  possessed  by  the  niche,  made  it  possible  that 
they  would  escape  the  rain. 


240  ANNE. 

The  cave  was  in  an  angle  of  the  hill.  From  Heath- 
cote's  side  part  of  the  main  road  could  be  seen,  and  the 
saw-mill;  but  Anne,  facing  the  other  way,  saw  only  the 
fields  and  forest,  the  sparkle  of  the  little  mill-stream,  and 
the  calmer  gleam  of  the  river.  One  half  of  the  sky  was 
of  the  deepest  blue,  one  half  of  the  expanse  of  field  and 
forest  golden  in  the  sunshine.  Over  the  other  half  hung 
a  cloud  and  a  shadow  of  deep  purple-black,  which  were 
advancing  rapidly,  although  there  was  not,  wher3  the 
two  gazers  sat,  so  much  as  a  breath  of  stirred  air. 

"It  will  soon  be  here,"  said  Heathcote.  "See  that 
white  line  across  the  forest  ?  That  is  the  wind  turning 
over  the  leaves.  In  the  fields  it  makes  the  grain  look 
suddenly  gray  as  it  is  bent  forward." 

"I  should  not  have  known  it  was  the  wind,"  said 
Anne.  "  I  have  only  seen  storms  on  the  water." 

"  That  yellow  line  is  the  Heliport  plank-road;  all  the 
dust  is  whirling.  Are  you  afraid  of  lightning  ?" 

"Shall  we  have  it?" 

"Yes;  here  it  is."  And,  with  a  flash,  the  wind  was 
upon  them.  A  cloud  of  dust  rose  from  the  road  below; 
they  bent  their  heads  until  the  whirlwind  had  passed  by 
on  its  wild  career  down  the  valley.  When,  laughing 
and  breathless,  Anne  opened  her  eyes  again,  her  hair, 
swept  out  of  its  loose  braids,  was  in  a  wild  mass  round 
her  shoulders,  and  she  barely  saved  her  straw  hat,  which 
was  starting  out  to  follow  the  whirlwind.  And  now 
the  lightning  was  vivid  and  beautiful,  cutting  the  blue- 
black  clouds  with  fierce  golden  darts,  while  the  thun 
der  followed,  peal  after  peal,  until  the  hill  itself  seemed 
to  tremble.  A  moment  later  came  the  rain,  hiding  both 
the  valley  and  sky  with  its  thick  gray  veil :  they  were 
shut  in. 

As  Heathcote  had  thought,  the  drops  only  grazed  their 
doorway.  They  moved  slightly  back  from  the  entrance ; 
he  took  off  his  hat,  hung  it  on  a  rock  knob,  and  inquired 
meekly  if  they  might  not  now  have  lunch.  Anne,  who, 
between  the  peals,  had  been  endeavoring  to  recapture  her 
hair,  and  had  now  one  long  thick  braid  in  comparative 
order,  smiled,  and  advised  him  to  stay  his  hunger  with 


ANNE,  241 

the  provisions  in  his  own  pockets.  He  took  them  out  and 
looked  at  them. 

"If  the  boys  who  use  this  hole  for  an  oven  have  left 
us  some  wood,  we  will  roast  and  toast  these,  and  have  a 
hot  lunch  yet,"  he  said,  stretching  back  to  search.  Light- 
Ing  a  match,  he  examined  the  hole ;  the  draught  that  blew 
the  flame  proved  that  it  had  an  outlet  above.  ' '  Boys  know 
something,  after  all.  And  here  is  their  wood-pile,"  he 
said,  showing  Anne,  by  the  light  of  a  second  match,  a 
cranny  in  the  rock  at  one  side  neatly  filled  with  small 
sticks  and  twigs.  The  rain  fell  in  a  thick  dark  sheet 
outside  straight  down  from  the  sky  to  the  ground  with  a 
low  rushing  sound.  In  a  minute  or  two  a  tiny  blue  flame 
flickered  on  their  miniature  hearth,  went  out,  started 
again,  turned  golden,  caught  at  the  twigs,  and  grew  at 
last  into  a  brisk  little  fire.  Heathcote,  leaning  on  his  el 
bow,  his  hands  and  cuffs  grimed,  watched  and  tended  it 
carefully.  He  next  cut  his  quarter  loaf  into  slices,  and 
toasted — or  rather  heated — them  on  the  point  of  his  knife- 
blade  ;  he  put  his  two  potatoes  under  hot  ashes,  like  two 
Indian  mounds,  arranged  his  pinch  of  salt  ceremonious 
ly  upon  a  stone,  and  then  announced  that  he  had  pre 
pared  a  meal  to  which  all  persons  present  were  gener 
ously  invited,  with  a  polite  unconsciousness  as  to  any 
covered  baskets  they  might  have  in  their  possession,  or 
the  supposed  contents  of  said  receptacles.  Anne,  having 
finished  the  other  long  braid  and  thrown  it  behind  her, 
was  now  endeavoring  to  wash  her  hands  in  the  rain. 
In  this  attempt  Heathcote  joined  her,  but  only  succeeded 
in  broadening  the  grimy  spots.  The  girl's  neck-tie  and 
cuffs  were  still  confiscated.  She  was  aware  that  a  linen 
collar,  fastened  only  with  a  white  pin,  is  not  what  custom 
requires  at  the  base  of  a  chin,  and  that  wrists  bare  for 
three  inches  above  the  hand  are  considered  indecorous. 
At  least  in  the  morning,  certain  qualities  in  evening  air 
making  the  same  exposure,  even  to  a  much  greater  ex 
tent,  quite  different.  But  she  was  not  much  troubled ;  isl 
and  life  had  made  her  indifferent  even  to  these  enormities. 

The  rain  did  not  swerve  from  its  work ;  it  came  down 
steadily;  they  could  not  see  through  the  swift  lead -color- 

16 


242  ANNE. 

ed  drops.  But,  within,  the  little  cave  was  cheery  in  the 
fire-light,  and  the  toasted  bread  had  an  appetizing  fra 
grance.  At  least  Heathcote  said  so ;  Anne  thought  it  was 
burned.  She  opened  her  basket,  and  they  divided  the 
contents  impartially — half  a  biscuit,  half  a  pickle,  half 
an  apple,  and  a  slice  and  a  half  of  cake  for  each.  The  po 
tatoes  were  hardly  warmed  through,  but  Heathcote  in 
sisted  that  they  should  be  tasted,  "in  order  not  to  wicked 
ly  waste  the  salt."  Being  really  hungry,  they  finished 
everything,  he  stoutly  refusing  to  give  up  even  a  crumb  of 
his  last  half -slice  of  cake,  which  Anne  begged  for  on  the 
plea  of  being  still  in  school.  By  this  time  they  were  full 
of  merriment,  laughing  and  paying  no  attention  to  what 
they  said,  talking  nonsense  and  enjoying  it.  Amie's 
cheeks  glowed,  her  eyes  were  bright  as  stars,  her  brown 
hair,  more  loosely  fastened  than  usual,  lay  in  little 
waves  round  her  face ;  her  beautiful  arched  lips  were 
half  the  time  parted  in  laughter,  and  her  rounded  arms 
and  hands  seemed  to  fall  into  charming  poses  of  their 
own,  whichever  way  she  turned. 

About  three  o'clock  the  veil  of  rain  grew  less  dense ; 
they  could  see  the  fields  again ;  from  where  he  sat,  Heath 
cote  could  see  the  road  and  the  mill. 

' '  Can  we  not  go  now  ?"  said  Anne. 

' '  By  no  means,  unless  you  covet  the  drenching  we 
have  taken  so  much  care  to  escape.  But  by  four  I  think 
it  will  be  over."  He  lit  a  cigar,  and  leaning  back 
against  the  rock,  said,  ' '  Tell  me  some  more  about  that 
island;  about  the  dogs  and  the  ice." 

"No,"  said  Anne,  coloring  a  little;  "you  are  laugh 
ing  at  me.  I  shall  tell  you  no  more." 

Then  he  demanded  autocratically  that  she  should  sing. 
* '  I  choose  the  song  you  sang  on  New- Year's  night ;  the 
ballad." 

And  Anne  sang  the  little  chanson,  sang  it  softly  and 
clearly,  the  low  sound  of  the  rain  forming  an  accompany 
ment. 

"Do  you  know  any  Italian  songs ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Please  sing  me  one." 


ANNE.  243 

She  sang  one  of  Belzinrs  selections,  and  remembered  to 
sing  it  as  Tante  had  directed. 

"  You  do  not  sing  that  as  well  as  the  other;  there  is 
no  expression.  However,  that  could  hardly  be  expected, 
I  suppose." 

"Yes,  it  could,  and  I  know  how.  Only  Tante  told  me 
not  to  do  it,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  touch  of  annoyance. 

"Tante  not  being  here,  I  propose  that  you  disobey." 

And  Anne,  not  unwillingly,  began ;  it  had  always  been 
hard  for  her  to  follow  Tante's  little  rule.  She  had  heard 
the  song  more  than  once  in  the  opera  to  which  it  be 
longed,  and  she  knew  the  Italian  words.  She  put  her 
whole  heart  into  it,  and  when  she  ended,  her  eyes  were 
dimmed  with  emotion. 

Heathcote  looked  at  her  now,  and  guardedly.  This  was 
not  the  school-girl  of  the  hour  before.  But  it  was,  and 
he  soon  discovered  that  it  was.  Anne's  emotion  had  been 
impersonal ;  she  had  identified  herself  for  the  time  being 
with  the  song,  but  once  ended,  its  love  and  grief  were  110 
more  to  her — her  own  personality  as  Anne  Douglas — than 
the  opera  itself. 

"Curious!"  thought  the  man  beside  her. 

And  then  his  attention  was  diverted  by  a  moving  ob 
ject  advancing  along  the  main  road  below.  Through 
the  rain  he  distinguished  the  light  buggy  of  Gregory 
Dexter  and  his  pair  of  fine  black  horses.  They  had  ev 
idently  been  under  shelter  during  the  heaviest  rain-fall, 
and  had  now  ventured  forth  again.  Heathcote  made  no 
sign,  but  watched.  Anne  could  not  see  the  road.  Dex 
ter  stopped  at  the  mill,  tied  his  horses  to  a  post,  and  then 
tried  the  doors,  and  also  the  door  of  the  miller's  little  cot 
tage,  peering  through  the  windows  as  they  had  done. 
Then  he  went  up  the  ravine  out  of  sight,  as  if  searching 
for  some  one.  After  five  minutes  he  returned,  and 
waited,  hesitating,  under  a  tree,  which  partially  protect 
ed  him  from  the  still  falling  drops.  Heathcote  was 
now  roused  to  amusement.  Dexter  was  evidently  search 
ing  for  Anne.  He  lit  another  cigar,  leaned  back  against 
the  rock  in  a  comfortable  position,  and  began  a  desultory 
conversation,  at  the  same  time  watching  the  movements 


244  ANNE. 

of  his  rival  below.  A  sudden  after-shower  had  now  come 
up — one  of  those  short  but  heavy  bursts  of  rain  on  the  de 
parting  edge  of  a  thunder-storm,  by  which  the  unwary 
are  often  overtaken.  Dexter,  leaving  his  tree,  and  seizing 
the  cushions  of  the  buggy,  hurried  up  the  tramway  to 
the  mill  door  again,  intending  to  force  an  entrance. 
But  the  solid  oak  stood  firm  in  spite  of  his  efforts,  and  the 
rain  poured  fiercely  down.  Heathcote  could  see  him 
look  upward  to  the  sky,  still  holding  the  heavy  cushions, 
and  his  sense  of  enjoyment  was  so  great  that  he  leaned 
forward  and  warmly  shook  hands  with  Anne. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that  ?"  she  asked,  in  surprise. 

"I  remembered  that  I  had  not  shaken  hands  with  you 
all  day.  If  we  neglect  our  privileges,  the  gods  take  them 
from  us,"  he  answered.  And  then  he  had  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  man  below  attempt  to  climb  up  to 
one  of  the  small  mill  windows,  slip  down  twice,  and  at 
last  succeed  so  far  as  to  find  footing  on  a  projecting 
edge,  and  endeavor  to  open  the  stubborn  sash,  which 
plainly  would  not  yield.  He  was  exerting  all  his  strength. 
But  without  avail.  It  was  a  true  dog-day  afternoon, 
the  rain  having  made  the  air  more  close  and  lifeless  than 
before.  The  strong  draught  up  the  chimney  of  their  cave 
had  taken  the  heat  of  the  small  fire  away  from  them; 
yet  even  there  among  the  cool  rocks  they  had  found  it 
necessary  to  put  out  the  little  blaze,  as  making  their  niche 
too  warm.  Down  below  in  the  open  valley  the  heat  was 
unbroken ;  and  to  be  wet  and  warm,  and  obliged  to  exert 
all  one's  strength  at  the  same  time,  is  hard  for  a  large  man 
like  Gregory  Dexter.  The  rain  dripped  from  the  roof  di 
rectly  down  upon  his  hat,  and  probably,  the  looker-on 
thought  with  glee,  was  stealing  down  his  back  also.  At 
any  rate  he  was  becoming  impatient,  for  he  broke  a  pane 
of  glass  and  put  his  hand  through  to  try  and  reach  the 
sash-spring.  But  the  spring  wTas  broken ;  it  would  not 
move.  And  now  he  must  be  growing  angry,  for  he 
shivered  all  the  panes,  broke  the  frame,  and  then  tried 
to  clamber  in ;  the  cushions  were  already  sacrificed  down 
on  the  wet  boards  below.  But  it  is  difficult  for  a  broad- 
shouldered  heavy  man  to  climb  through  a  small  window, 


ANNE.  245 

especially  if  he  have  no  firm  foot-hold  as  a  beginning. 
Heathcote  laughed  out  aloud  now,  and  Anne  leaned  for 
ward  to  look  also. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  she  said,  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  strug 
gling  figure.  At  this  moment  Dexter  had  one  knee  on  the 
sill  and  his  head  inside,  but  he  was  too  broad  for  the  space. 

"  He  is  caught!  He  can  neither  get  in  nor  out,"  said 
Heathcote,  in  an  ecstasy  of  mirth. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  said  Anne  again. 

"Dexter,  of  course;  he  is  here  looking  for  you. 
There !  he  has  slipped — he  is  in  real  danger  !  No ;  he  has 
firm  hold  with  his  hands.  See  him  try  to  find  the  edge 
with  his  feet.  Oh,  this  is  too  good !"  And  throwing  back 
his  head,  Heathcote  laughed  until  his  brown  eyes  shone. 

But  Anne,  really  alarmed,  held  her  breath ;  then,  when 
the  struggling  figure  at  last  found  its  former  foot-hold,  she 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  ' '  We  must  go  down, "  she  said. 

"  And  why,  Miss  Douglas  ?" 

"Did  you  not  say  he  had  come  for  me ?" 

* '  That  was  a  supposition  merely.  And  did  not  I  come 
for  you  too  ?" 

"But  as  he  is  there,  would  it  not  be  better  for  us  to 
go  down  ?" 

"Have  we  not  done  well  enough  by  ourselves  so  far  ? 
And  besides,  at  this  late  hour,  I  see  no  object  in  getting  a 
wetting  merely  for  his  sake." 

"  It  is  not  raining  hard  now." 

"But  it  is  still  raining." 

She  leaned  forward  and  looked  down  at  Dexter  again ; 
he  was  standing  under  a  tree  wiping  his  hat  with  his 
handkerchief. 

"Please  let  me  go  down,"  she  said,  entreatingly,  like 
a  child. 

"No,"  said  Heathcote,  smiling  back,  and  taking  her 
hand  as  if  to  make  sure.  "Do  you  remember  the  even 
ing  after  the  quarry  affair,  Anne  2  and  that  I  took  your 
hand,  and  held  it  as  I  am  doing  now  ?  Did  you  think  me 
impertinent  ?" 

"I  thought  you  very  kind.  After  that  I  did  not  mind 
what  grandaunt  had  said." 


246  ANNE. 

' '  And  what  had  she  said  ?  But  no  matter ;  something 
disagreeable,  without  doubt.  Even  the  boys  who  frequent 
this  retreat  could  not  well  have  grimier  hands  than  we 
have  now  :  look  at  them.  No,  you  can  not  be  released, 
unless  you  promise. " 

"What?" 

"  Not  to  go  down  until  I  give  you  leave:  I  will  give  it 
soon." 

"I  promise." 

With  a  quiet  pressure,  and  one  rather  long  look,  he 
relinquished  her  hand,  and  leaned  back  against  the  rock 
again. 

"I  wonder  how  Dexter  knew  that  you  were  here  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  met  grandaunt.  I  heard  him  say  that 
he  was  going  to  Heliport  to-day." 

' '  That  is  it.  The  roads  cross,  and  he  must  have  met 
her.  Probably,  then,  he  has  her  permission  to  take  you 
home.  Miss  Douglas,  will  you  accept  advice  ?" 

"I  will  at  least  listen  to  it,"  said  Anne,  smiling. 

"When  the  rain  stops,  as  it  will  in  a  few  minutes,  go 
down  alone.  And  say  nothing  to  Mr.  Dexter  about  me. 
Now  do  not  begin  to  batter  me  with  that  aggressive  truth 
fulness  of  yours.  You  can,  of  course,  tell  Miss  Vanhorn 
the  whole ;  but  certainly  you  are  not  accountable  to  Greg 
ory  Dexter." 

"  But  why  should  I  not  tell  him  ?" 

"Because  it  is  as  well  that  he  should  not  know  I  have 
been  here  with  you  all  day,"  said  Heathcote,  quietly,  but 
curious  to  hear  what  she  would  answer. 

"  Was  it  wrong  ?" 

' '  It  was  a  chance.  But  he  would  think  I  planned  it. 
Of  course  I  supposed  the  miller  and  his  family  were  here. " 

"But  if  it  was  wrong  for  you  to  be  here  when  you 
found  them  absent,  why  did  you  stay  ?"  said  Anne,  look 
ing  at  him  gravely. 

"The  storm  came  up,  you  know;  of  course  I  could  not 
leave  you.  Do  not  look  so  serious ;  all  is  well  if  we  keep 
it  to  ourselves.  And  Miss  Vanhorn's  first  command  to 
you  will  be  the  same.  She  will  look  blackly  at  me  for  a 
day  or  two,  but  I  shall  be  able  to  bear  that.  Take  my  ad- 


ANNE.  24T 

vice;  to  Dexter,  at  least,  say  nothing."  Then,  seeing 
her  still  unconvinced,  he  added,  "On  my  own  account, 
too,  I  wish  you  would  not  tell  him. " 

"  You  mean  it  2" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  will  not,"  she  answered,  raising  her  sincere 
eyes  to  his. 

Heathcote  laughed,  lightly  lifted  her  hand,  and  touch 
ed  the  blue- veined  wrist  with  his  lips.  ' '  You  true-heart 
ed  little  girl !"  he  said.  "I  was  only  joking.  As  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  you  may  tell  Dexter  and  the  whole  world. 
But  seriously,  on  your  own  account,  I  beg  you  to  refrain. 
Promise  me  not  to  tell  him  until  you  have  seen  Miss  Van- 
horii." 

"Very  well;  I  promise  that,"  said  Anne. 

"  Good-by,  then.  The  rain  is  over,  and  he  will  be  go 
ing.  I  will  not  show  myself  until  I  see  you  drive  away. 
What  good  fortune  that  my  horse  was  tied  out  of  sight ! 
Must  you  carry  all  those  things,  basket,  tin  case,  and  all  ? 
Why  not  let  me  try  to  smuggle  some  of  them  home  on 
horseback  ?  You  would  rather  not  ?  I  submit.  There, 
your  hat  has  fallen  off;  I  will  tie  it  on." 

"But  the  strings  do  not  belong  there,"  said  Anne, 
laughing  merrily  as  he  knotted  the  two  blue  ribbons  with 
great  strength  (as  a  man  always  ties  a  ribbon)  under  her 
chin. 

"Never  mind;  they  look  charming." 

"And  my  cuffs?"  ' 

"You  can  not  have  them;  I  shall  keep  them  as  souve 
nirs.  And  now — have  you  had  a  pleasant  day,  Anne  ?" 

"Very,"  replied  the  girl,  frankly. 

They  shook  hands  in  farewell,  and  then  she  went  down 
the  ladder,  her  shawl,  plant  case,  and  basket  on  her  arm. 
Heathcote  remained  in  the  cave.  When  she  had  reached 
the  ground,  and  was  turning  to  descend  the  hill,  a  low 
voice  above  said,  "Anne." 

She  glanced  up;  Heathcote  was  lying  on  the  floor  of 
the  cave  with  his  eyes  looking  over  the  edge.  "Shake 
hands,"  he  said,  cautiously  stretching  down  an  arm. 

"But  I  did." 


248  ANNE. 

"  Once  more." 

She  put  down  her  shawl,  plant  case,  and  basket,  and, 
climbing  one  round  of  the  ladder,  extended  her  hand; 
their  finger-tips  touched. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  voice  above,  and  the  head  was 
withdrawn. 

Dexter,  after  doing  what  he  could  to  make  the  buggy 
dry,  was  on  the  point  of  driving  away,  when  he  saw  a 
figure  coming  toward  him,  and  recognized  Anne.  He 
jumped  lightly  out  over  the  wheel  (he  could  be  light  on 
occasion),  and  came  to  meet  her.  It  was  as  they  had 
thought ;  he  had  met  Miss  Vanhorn,  and  learning  where 
Anne  was,  had  received  permission  to  take  her  home. 

' '  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  after  all, "  he  said,  his  white 
teeth  gleaming  as  he  smiled,  and  his  gray  eyes  resting 
upon  her  with  cordial  pleasure.  He  certainly  was  a  fine- 
looking  man.  But — too  large  for  a  mill  window.  Fortu 
nately  mill  windows  are  not  standards  of  comparison. 

' '  It  has  been  raining  a  long  time ;  where  did  you  find 
shelter  ?"  he  asked,  as  the  spirited  horses,  fretted  by  stand 
ing,  started  down  the  moist  brown  road  at  a  swift  pace. 

"In  a  little  cave  in  the  hill-side  above  us,"  answered 
Anne,  conscious  that  at  that  very  moment  Heathcote  was 
probably  watching  them.  She  hesitated,  and  then,  in 
spite  of  a  distinct  determination  not  to  do  it,  could  not 
help  turning  her  head  and  glancing  backward  and  up 
ward  for  a  second  behind  her  companion's  broad  shoul 
ders.  In  answer,  a  handkerchief  fluttered  from  above ; 
he  was  watching,  then.  A  bright  flush  rose  in  her  cheeks, 
and  she  talked  gayly  to  Dexter  during  the  six-mile  drive 
between  the  glistening  fields,  over  the  wet  dark  bridge, 
and  up  to  the  piazza  of  Caryl's,  where  almost  every  one 
was  sitting  enjoying  the  coolness  after  the  rain,  and  the 
fresh  fragrance  of  the  grateful  earth.  Rachel  Baniiert 
came  forward  as  they  alighted,  and  resting  her  hand  ca 
ressingly  011  Anne's  shoulder,  hoped  that  she  was  not 
t,ired — and  were  they  caught  in  the  rain  ? — and  did  they 
observe  the  peculiar  color  of  the  clouds  ? — and  so  forth, 
and  so  forth.  Rachel  was  dressed  for  the  evening  in 
black  lace  over  black  velvet,  with  a  crimson  rose  in  her 


ANNE.  249 

hair;  the  rich  drapery  trailed  round  her  in  royal  length, 
yet  in  some  way  failed  to  conceal  entirely  the  little  foot 
in  its  black  slipper.  Anne  did  not  hurry  away;  she 
stood  contentedly  where  she  was  while  Rachel  asked  all 
her  little  questions.  Dexter  had  stepped  back  into  the 
buggy  with  the  intention  of  driving  round  himself  to  the 
stables ;  he  had  no  desire  to  expose  the  wrinkled  condi 
tion  of  his  attire  to  the  groups  on  the  piazza.  But  in  that 
short  interval  he  noted  (as  Rachel  had  intended  he 
should  note)  every  detail  of  her  appearance.  Her  only 
failure  was  that  he  failed  to  note  also,  by  comparison,  the 
deficiencies  of  Anne. 

When  he  was  gone,  being  released,  Anne  ran  up  to  her 
room,  placed  the  fern  in  water,  and  then,  happening  to 
think  of  it,  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  The  result  was 
not  cheering.  Like  most  women,  she  judged  herself  by 
the  order  of  her  hair  and  dress ;  they  were  both  frightful. 

Miss  Vanhorn,  also  caught  in  the  storm,  did  not  return 
until  late  twilight.  Anne,  not  knowing  what  she  would 
decree  when  she  heard  the  story  of  the  day,  had  attired 
herself  in  the  thick  white  school-girl  dress  which  had  been 
selected  011  another  occasion  of  penance — the  evening 
after  the  adventure  at  the  quarry.  It  was  an  inconven 
ient  time  to  tell  the  story.  Miss  Vanhorn  was  tired  and 
cross,  tea  had  been  sent  up  to  the  room,  and  Bessmer  was 
waiting  to  arrange  her  hair.  "What  have  you  been  do 
ing  now?"  she  said.  "Climbing  trees?  Or  breaking 
in  colts  ?" 

Anne  told  her  tale  briefly.  The  old  woman  listened, 
without  comment,  but  watching  her  closely  all  the  time. 

"And  he  said  to  tell  you,''  said  Anne,  in  conclusion, 
"but  not  to  tell  Mr.  Dexter,  unless  you  gave  me  permis 
sion." 

"  Mr.  Dexter  alone  ?" 

"Mr.  Dexter  or — any  one,  I  suppose." 

' '  Very  well ;  that  will  do.  And  Mr.  Heathcote  is 
right ;  you  are  not  to  breathe  a  word  of  this  adventure 
to  any  one.  But  what  fascination  it  is,  Anne  Douglas, 
which  induces  you  to  hang  yourself  over  rocks,  and  climb 
up  into  caves.  I  can  not  imagine !  Luckily  this  time  you 


250  ANNE. 

had  not  a  crowd  of  spectators.  Bring  me  the  fern,  and— 
But  what,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  are  you  wearing  ?  Go 
to  your  room  immediately  and  put  on  the  lavender  silk." 

"  Oh,  grandaunt,  that  ?" 

"  Do  as  I  bid  you.  Bessmer,  you  can  come  in  now.  I 
suppose  it  is  ordered  for  the  best  that  young  girls  should 
be  such  hopeless  simpletons!" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  No  summer  ever  aime  back,  and  no  two  summers  ever  were  alike. 
Times  change,  and  people  change ;  and  if  our  hearts  do  not  change  as 
readily,  so  much  the  worse  for  us." — NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  But,  ah !  who  ever  shunn'd  by  precedent 
The  destined  ills  she  must  herself  assay?" 

— SHAKSPEARE. 

WHEN  Miss  Van  horn  and  her  niece  entered  the  ball 
room,  late  in  the  evening,  heads  were  turned  to  look  at 
them;  for  the  old  woman  wore  all  her  diamonds,  fine 
stones  in  old-fashioned  settings,  and  shone  like  a  little 
squat-figured  East  Indian  god.  Anne  was  beside  her, 
clad  in  pale  lavender — an  evening  costume  simply  made, 
but  more  like  full  dress  than  anything  she  had  yet  worn. 
Dexter  came  forward  instantly,  and  asked  her  to  dance. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  well — so  much 
like  the  other  ladies ;  for  heretofore  there  had  been  a 
marked  difference — a  difference  which  he  had  neither 
comprehended  nor  admired.  Anne  danced.  New  invi 
tations  came,  and  she  accepted  them.  She  was  enjoying 
it  all  frankly,  when  through  a  window  she  caught  sight 
of  Heathcote  on  the  piazza  looking  in.  She  happened 
to  be  dancing  with  Mr.  Dexter,  and  at  once  she  felt  nerv 
ous  in  the  thought  that  he  might  at  any  moment  ask  her 
some  question  about  the  day  which  she  would  find  diffi 
culty  in  answering.  But  she  had  not  thought  of  this  un 
til  her  eyes  fell  on  Heathcote. 

Dexter  had  seen  Heathcote  too,  and  he  had  also  seen 
her  sudden  nervousness.  He  was  intensely  vexed. 
Could  Ward  Heathcote,  simply  by  looking  through  a 


ANNE.  251 

window,  make  a  girl  grow  nervous  in  that  way,  and  a 
girl  with  whom  he,  Dexter,  was  dancing  ?  With  in 
ward  angry  determination,  he  immediately  asked  her  to 
dance  again.  But  he  need  not  have  feared  interference ; 
Heathcote  did  not  enter  the  room  during  the  evening. 

From  the  moment  Miss  Vanhorn  heard  the  story  of 
that  day  her  method  regarding  her  niece  changed  entire 
ly;  for  Mr.  Heathcote  would  never  have  remained  with 
her,  storm  or  no  storm,  through  four  or  five  hours,  unless 
he  either  admired  her,  had  been  entertained  by  her,  or 
liked  her  for  herself  alone,  as  men  will  like  occasionally 
a  frank,  natural  young  girl. 

According  to  old  Katharine,  Anne  was  not  beautiful 
enough  to  excite  his  admiration,  not  amusing  enough  to 
entertain  him ;  it  must  be,  therefore,  that  he  liked  her  to 
a  certain  degree  for  herself  alone.  Mr.  Heathcote  was 
not  a  favorite  of  old  Katharine's,  yet  none  the  less  was 
his  approval  worth  having,  and  none  the  less,  also,  was 
he  an  excellent  subject  to  rouse  the  jealousy  of  Gregory 
Dexter.  For  Dexter  was  not  coming  forward  as  rapidly 
as  old  Katharine  had  decreed  he  should  come.  Old  Kath 
arine  had  decided  that  Anne  was  to  marry  Dexter ;  but 
if  in  the  mean  time  her  girlish  fancy  was  attracted  toward 
Heathcote,  so  much  the  better.  It  would  all  the  more 
surely  eliminate  the  memory  of  that  fatal  name,  Pronan- 
do.  Of  course  Heathcote  was  only  amusing  himself,  but 
he  must  now  be  encouraged  to  continue  to  amuse  himself. 
She  ceased  taking  Anne  to  the  woods  every  day;  she 
made  her  sit  among  the  groups  of  ladies  on  the  piazza  in 
the  morning,  with  worsted,  canvas,  and  a  pattern,  which 
puzzled  poor  Anne  deeply,  since  she  had  not  the  gift  of 
fancy- work,  nor  a  talent  for  tidies.  She  asked  Heathcote 
to  teach  her  niece  to  play  billiards,  and  she  sent  her  to 
stroll  011  the  river-bank  at  sunset  with  him  under  a  white 
silk  parasol.  At  the  same  time,  however,  she  continued 
to  summon  Mr.  Dexter  to  her  side  with  the  same  dictato 
rial  manner  she  had  assumed  toward  him  from  the  first, 
and  to  talk  to  him,  and  encourage  him  to  talk  to  her 
through  long  half -hours  of  afternoon  and  evening.  The 
old  woman,  with  her  airs  of  patronage,  her  half-closed 


252  ANNE. 

eyes,  and  frank  impertinence,  amused  him  more  than  any 
one  at  Caryl's.  With  his  own  wide,  far-reaching  plans 
and  cares  and  enterprises  all  the  time  pushing  each  oth 
er  forward  in  his  mind,  it  was  like  coming  from  a  world 
of  giants  to  one  of  Lilliputians  to  sit  down  and  talk  with 
limited,  prejudiced,  narrow  old  Katharine.  She  knew 
that  he  was  amused ;  she  was  even  capable  of  understand 
ing  it,  viewed  from  his  own  stand-point.  That  made  no 
difference  with  her  own. 

After  three  or  four  days  of  the  chaperon's  open  ar 
rangement,  it  grew  into  a  custom  for  Heathcote  to  meet 
Anne  at  sunset  in  the  garden,  and  stroll  up  and  down 
with  her  for  half  an  hour.  She  was  always  there,  be 
cause  she  was  sent  there.  Heathcote  never  said  he  would 
come  again ;  it  was  supposed  to  be  by  chance.  But  one 
evening  Anne  remarked  frankly  that  she  was  very  glad  he 
came;  her  grandaunt  sent  her  out  whether  she  wished 
to  come  or  not,  and  the  resources  of  the  small  garden 
were  soon  exhausted.  They  were  sitting  in  an  arbor  at 
the  end  of  the  serpentine  walk.  Heathcote,  his  straw 
hat  on  the  ground,  was  braiding  three  spears  of  grass 
with  elaborate  care. 

"You  pay  rather  doubtful  compliments,"  he  said. 

' '  I  only  mean  that  it  is  very  kind  to  come  so  regularly. " 

"You  will  not  let  even  that  remain  a  chance  ?" 

"But  it  is  not,  is  it?" 

"Well,  no,"  he  answered,  after  a  short  silence,  "I  can 
not  say  that  it  is."  He  dropped  the  grass  blades,  leaned 
back  against  the  rustic  seat,  and  looked  at  her.  It  was 
a  great  temptation;  he  was  a  finished  adept  in  the  art 
of  flirtation  at  its  highest  grade,  and  enjoyed  the  pastime. 
But  he  had  not  really  opened  that  game  with  this  young 
girl,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  he  would  not  now.  He 
leaned  over,  found  his  three  spears  of  grass,  and  went  on 
braiding.  But  although  he  thus  restrained  himself,  he 
still  continued  to  meet  her,  as  Miss  Vanhorn,  with  equal 
pertinacity,  continued  to  send  her  niece  to  meet  him. 
They  were  not  alone  in  the  garden,  but  their  conversa 
tion  was  unheard. 

One  evening  tableaux  were  given :  Isabel,  Rachel,  and 


ANNE.  253 

others  had  been  admired  in  many  varieties  of  costume  and 
attitude,  and  Dexter  had  been  everything  from  Richard 
the  Lion-hearted  to  Aladdin.  Heathcote  had  refused  to 
take  part.  And  now  came  a  tableau  in  which  Anne,  as 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  was  poised  on  a  barrel  mounted 
on  three  tables,  one  above  the  other.  This  airy  elevation 
was  considered  necessary  for  the  goddess,  and  the  three 
tables  were  occupied  by  symbolical  groups  of  the  Seasons, 
the  Virtues,  and  the  Nations,  all  gathered  together  un 
der  the  protection  of  Liberty  on  her  barrel.  Liberty,  be 
ing  in  this  case  a  finely  poised  young  person,  kept  her 
position  easily,  flag  in  hand,  while  the  merry  groups  were 
arranged  on  the  tables  below.  When  all  was  ready,  the 
curtain  was  raised,  lowered,  then  raised  again  for  a  sec 
ond  view,  Anne  looking  like  a  goddess  indeed  (although  a 
very  young  one),  her  white-robed  form  outlined  against 
a  dark  background,  one  arm  extended,  her  head  thrown 
back,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  outspread  flag.  But  at 
the  instant  the  curtain  began  to  rise  for  this  second  view, 
she  had  felt  the  barrel  broaden  slightly  under  her,  and 
knew  that  a  hoop  had  parted.  At  the  same  second  came 
the  feeling  that  her  best  course  was  to  stand  perfectly  mo 
tionless,  in  the  hope  that  the  staves  would  still  support 
her  until  she  could  be  assisted  down  from  her  isolated 
height.  For  she  was  fifteen  feet  above  the  stage,  and 
there  was  nothing  within  reach  which  she  could  grasp.  A 
chill  ran  over  her;  she  tried  not  to  breathe.  At  the 
same  moment,  however,  when  the  sensation  of  falling  was 
coming  upon  her,  two  firm  hands  were  placed  upon  each 
side  of  her  waist  from  behind,  very  slightly  lifting  her,  as 
if  to  show  her  that  she  was  safe  even  if  the  support  did 
give  way  beneath  her.  It  was  Heathcote,  standing  on  the 
table  below.  He  had  been  detailed  as  scene-shifter  (Ra 
chel,  being  behind  the  scenes  herself,  had  arranged  this), 
had  noticed  the  barrel  as  it  moved,  and  had  sprung  up 
unseen  behind  the  draperied  pyramid  to  assist  the  goddess. 
No  one  saw  him.  When  the  curtain  reached  the  foot 
lights  again  he  was  assisting  all  the  allegorical  person 
ages  to  descend  from  their  heights,  and  first  of  all  Liber 
ty,  who  was  trembling.  No  one  knew  this,  however,  save 


254 

himself.  Rachel,  gorgeous  as  Autumn,  drew  him  away 
almost  immediately,  and  Anne  had  no  opportunity  to 
thank  him  until  the  next  afternoon. 

"You  do  not  know  how  frightful  it  was  for  the  mo 
ment,"  she  said.  "I  had  never  felt  dizzy  in  my  life  be- 
fore.  I  had  nothing  with  which  I  could  save  myself, 
and  I  could  not  jump  down  on  the  tables  below,  because 
there  was  no  footing :  I  should  only  have  thrown  down 
the  others.  How  quick  you  were,  and  how  kind!  But 
you  are  always  kind." 

"  Few  would  agree  with  you  there,  Miss  Douglas.  Mr. 
Dexter  has  far  more  of  what  is  called  kindness  than  I 
have, "said  Heathcote,  carelessly. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  same  arbor.  Anne  was  silent 
a  moment,  as  if  pondering.  "Yes,"  she  said,  thought 
fully,  ' '  I  believe  you  are  right.  You  are  kind  to  a  few ; 
he  is  kind  to  all.  It  would  be  better  if  you  were  more 
like  him." 

"Thanks.  But  it  is  too  late,  I  fear,  to  make  a  Dexter 
of  me.  I  have  always  been,  if  not  exactly  a  grief  to  my 
friends,  still  by  no  means  their  pride.  Fortunately  I  have 
no  father  or  mother  to  be  disturbed  by  my  lacks ;  one 
does  not  mind  being  a  grief  to  second  cousins."  He 
paused;  then  added,  in  another  tone,  "But  life  is  lonely 
enough  sometimes." 

Two  violet  eyes  met  his  as  he  spoke,  gazing  at  him 
so  earnestly,  sincerely,  and  almost  wistfully  that  for  an 
instant  he  lost  himself.  He  began  to  speculate  as  to  the 
best  way  of  retaining  that  wistful  interest;  and  then, 
suddenly,  as  a  dam  gives  way  in  the  night  and  lets  out  the 
flood,  all  his  good  resolutions  crumbled,  and  his  vagrant 
fancy,  long  indulged,  asserted  its  command,  and  took  its 
own  way  again.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  approach 
her  to  the  ordinary  degree  and  in  the  ordinary  way  of 
flirtation ;  she  would  not  understand  or  allow  it.  With 
the  intuition  which  was  his  most  dangerous  gift  he  also 
knew  that  there  was  a  way  of  another  kind.  And  he 
used  it. 

His  sudden  change  of  purpose  had  taken  but  a  moment. 
"Lonely  enough,"  he  repeated,  "and  bad  enough.  Do 


^r       7~J  i  ^ 

.  cTT    ^'  -  '" 


ANNE.  255 

you  think  there  is  any  use  in  trying  to  be  better  ?'7  He 
spoke  as  if  half  in  earnest. 

"  We  must  all  try,"  said  the  girl,  gravely. 

"But  one  needs  help." 

"It  will  be  given." 

He  rose,  walked  to  the  door  of  the  arbor,  as  if  hesita 
ting,  then  came  back  abruptly.  "  You  could  help  me," 
he  said,  standing  in  front  of  her,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  face. 

She  started  slightly,  and  turned  her  eyes  away,  but 
did  not  speak.  Nor  did  he.  At  last,  as  the  silence  grew 
oppressive,  she  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "You  are  mistaken, 
I  think.  I  can  not." 

He  sat  down  again,  and  began  slowly  to  excavate  a 
hole  in  the  sand  with  the  end  of  his  cane,  to  the  conster 
nation  of  a  colony  of  ants  who  lived  in  a  thriving  village 
under  the  opposite  bench,  but  still  in  dangerous  proxim 
ity  to  the  approaching  tunnel. 

' '  I  have  never  pretended  to  be  anything  but  an  idle,  use 
less  fellow, r  he  said,  his  eyes  intent  upon  his  work.  ' '  But 
my  life  does  not  satisfy  me  always,  and  at  times  I  am 
seized  by  a  horrible  loneliness.  I  am  not  all  bad,  I  hope. 
If  any  one  cared  enough — but  no  one  has  ever  cared." 

"You  have  many  friends,"  said  AAne,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  hues  of  the  western  sky. 

"As  you  see  them.  The  people  here  are  examples  of 
my  friends." 

' '  You  must  have  others  who  are  nearer. " 

"No,  no  one.  I  have  never  had  a  home."  He  looked 
up  as  he  said  this,  and  met  her  eyes,  withdrawn  for  a 
moment  from  the  sunset;  they  expressed  so  much  pity 
that  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  For  his  entire  freedom 
from  home  ties  was  almost  the  only  thing  for  which  he 
had  felt  profoundly  grateful  in  his  idle  life.  Other  boys 
had  been  obliged  to  bend  to  the  paternal  will ;  other  fel 
lows  had  not  been  able  to  wander  over  the  world  and 
enjoy  themselves  as  he  had  wandered  and  enjoyed.  But 
— he  could  not  help  going  on  now. 

"I  pretend  to  be  indifferent,  and  all  that.  No  doubt 
I  succeed  in  appearing  so— that  is,  to  the  outside  world. 


256  ANNE. 

But  there  come  moments  when  I  would  give  anything 
for  some  firm  belief  to  anchor  myself  to,  something  high 
er  and  better  than  I  am."  (The  tunnel  was  very  near 
the  ants  now.)  "I  believe,  Miss  Douglas,  I  can  not  help 
believing,  that  you  could  tell  me  what  that  is." 

"Oh  no;  I  am  very  ignorant,"  said  Anne,  hurriedly, 
returning  to  the  sunset  with  heightened  color. 

' '  But  you  believe.  I  will  never  make  a  spectacle  of 
myself;  I  will  never  ask  the  conventional  questions  of 
conventional  good  people,  whom  I  hate.  You  might  in 
fluence  me —  But  what  right  have  I  to  ask  you,  Anne  ? 
Why  should  I  think  that  you  would  care  ?" 

"I  do  care,"  said  the  low  voice,  after  a  moment,  as  if 
forced  to  answer. 

"Then  help  me." 

* '  How  can  I  help  you  ?" 

' '  Tell  me  what  you  believe.  And  make  me  believe  it 
also." 

"Surely,  Mr.  Heathcote,  you  believe  in  God ?" 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  do." 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  distress.  "How  can  you 
live!"  she  cried,  almost  in  tears. 

Again  Heathcote  felt  a  touch  of  compunction.  But 
he  could  not  makdBiimself  stop  now ;  he  was  too  sincere 
ly  interested. 

"There  is  no  use;  I  can  not  argue,"  Anne  was  saying. 
' '  If  you  do  not  feel  God,  I  can  not  make  you  believe  in 
him." 

"Tell  me  how  you  feel ;  perhaps  I  can  learn  from  you." 

Poor  Anne !  she  did  not  know  how  she  felt,  and  had 
no  words  ready.  Undeveloped,  unused  to  analysis,  she 
was  asked  to  unfold  her  inmost  soul  in  the  broad  garish 
light  of  day. 

"I — I  can  not,"  she  murmured,  in  deep  trouble. 

"Never  mind,  then,"  said  Heathcote,  with  an  excel 
lent  little  assumption  of  disappointment  masked  by  af 
fected  carelessness.  l '  Forget  what  I  have  said ;  it  is  of 
small  consequence  at  best.  Shall  we  go  back  to  the 
house,  Miss  Douglas  ?" 

But  Anne  was  struggling  with  herself,  making  a  des- 


ANNE.  257 

perate  effort  to  conquer  what  seemed  to  her  a  selfish  and 
unworthy  timidity.  "I  will  do  anything  I  can,"  she 
said,  hurriedly,  iii.a  low  voice. 

They  had  both  risen.  "Let  me  see  you  to-morrow, 
then." 

"Yes." 

"It  is  a  beginning,"  he  said.  He  offered  his  arm 
gravely,  almost  reverently,  and  in  silence  they  returned 
to  the  house.  It  seemed  to  Anne  that  many  long  minutes 
passed  as  they  walked  through  the  garden,  brushed  by 
the  roses  on  each  side :  in  reality  the  minutes  were  three. 

For  that  evening  meteors  had  been  appointed  by  the  as 
tronomers  and  the  newspapers.  They  were,  when  they 
came,  few  and  faint ;  but  they  afforded  a  pretext  for  being 
out  on  the  hill.  Anne  was  there  with  Mr.  Dexter,  and 
other  star-gazers  were  near.  Heathcote  and  Rachel, 
however,  were  not  visible,  and  this  disturbed  Dexter.  In 
spite  of  himself,  he  could  never  be  quite  content  unless 
he  knew  where  that  dark-eyed  woman  was.  But  his  in 
ward  annoyance  did  not  affect  either  his  memory  or  the 
fine  tones  of  his  voice.  No  one  on  the  hill  that  night 
quoted  so  well  or  so  aptly  grand  star-like  sentences,  or 
verses  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

1 '  When  standing  alone  on  a  hill-top  during  a  clear 
night  such  as  this,  Miss  Douglas,"  he  said,  "the  roll  of 
the  earth  eastward  is  almost  a  palpable  movement.  The 
sensation  may  be  caused  by  the  panoramic  glide  of  the 
stars  past  earthly  objects,  or  by  the  wind,  or  by  the  sol 
itude  ;  but  whatever  be  its  origin,  the  impression  of  rid 
ing  along  is  vivid  and  abiding.  We  are  now  watching 
our  own  stately  progress  through  the  stars." 

"  Hear  Dexter  quote,"  said  Heathcote,  in  his  lowest  un 
der- tone,  to  Rachel.  They  were  near  the  others,  but,  in 
stead  of  standing,  were  sitting  on.  the  grass,  with  a  large 
bush  for  background ;  in  its  shadow  their  figures  were  con 
cealed,  and  the  rustle  of  its  leaves  drowned  their  whispers. 

' '  Hush !     I  like  Mr.  Dexter, ' '  said  Rachel. 

' '  I  know  you  do.     You  will  marry  that  man  some  day. " 

"  Do  you  say  that,  Ward  ?" 

An  hour  later,  Anne,  in  her  own  room,  was  timidly 
17 


258  ANNE. 

adding  the  same  name  to  her  own  petitions  before  she 
slept. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  they  met  in  the  garden 
at  sunset  as  before,  and  each  time  when  they  parted  she 
was  flushed  and  excited  by  the  effort  she  was  making, 
and  he  was  calm  and  content.  On  the  third  afternoon 
they  did  not  meet,  for  there  was  another  picnic.  But  as 
the  sun  sank  below  the  horizon,  and  the  rich  colors  rose 
in  the  sky,  Heathcote  turned,  and,  across  all  the  merry 
throng,  looked  at  her  as  if  in  remembrance.  After  that 
he  did  not  see  her  alone  for  several  days :  chance  obstacles 
stood  in  the  way,  and  he  never  forced  anything.  Then 
there  was  another  unmolested  hour  in  the  arbor ;  then  an 
other.  Anne  was  now  deeply  interested.  How  could  she 
help  being  so,  when  the  education  of  a  soul  was  placed  in 
her  hands  ?  And  Heathcote  began  to  be  fascinated  too. 

By  his  own  conversion  ? 

August  was  nearly  over.  The  nights  were  cool,  and 
the  early  mornings  veiled  in  mist.  The  city  idlers 
awakened  reluctantly  to  the  realization  that  summer  was 
drawing  to  its  close;  and  there  was  the  same  old  sur 
prise  over  the  dampness  of  the  yellow  moonlight,  the  dull 
look  of  the  forest ;  the  same  old  discovery  that  the  gold 
en-rods  and  asters  were  becoming  prominent  in  the  de 
parture  of  the  more  delicate  blossoms.  The  last  four 
days  of  that  August  Anne  remembered  all  her  life. 

On  the  28th  there  occurred,  by  unexpected  self -ar 
rangement  of  small  events,  a  long  conversation  of  three 
hours  with  Heathcote. 

On  the  29th  he  quarrelled  with  her,  and  hotly,  leaving 
her  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  surprise. 

On  the  30th  he  came  back  to  her.  They  had  but  three 
minutes  together  on  the  piazza,  and  then  Mr.  Dexter  join 
ed  them.  But  in  those  minutes  he  had  asked  forgiveness, 
and  seemed  also  to  yield  all  at  once  the  points  over 
which  heretofore  he  had  been  immovable. 

On  the  31st  Helen  came. 

It  was  late.  Anne  had  gone  to  her  room.  She  had 
not  seen  Heathcote  that  day.  She  had  extinguished  the 
candle,  and  was  looking  at  the  brassy  moon  slowly  ris- 


ANNE.  259 

ing  above  the  trees,  when  a  light  tap  sounded  on  her 
door. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  said. 

"Helen,  of  course,"  answered  a  sweet  voice  she  knew. 
She  drew  back  the  bolt  swiftly,  and  Mrs.  Lorrington  came 
in,  dressed  in  travelling  attire.  She  had  just  arrived. 
She  kissed  Anne,  saying,  gayly :  ' '  Are  you  not  glad  to 
see  me  ?  Grandfather  has  again  recovered,  and  dismissed 
me.  I  spend  my  life  on  the  road.  Are  you  well,  Crys 
tal  ?  And  how  do  you  like  Caryl's  ?  No,  do  not  light 
the  candle;  I  can  see  you  in  the  moonlight,  all  draped 
in  white.  I  shall  stay  half  an  hour — 110  longer.  My 
maid  is  waiting,  and  I  must  not  lose  my  beauty-sleep. 
But  I  wanted  to  see  you  first  of  all.  Tell  me  about  your 
self,  and  everything.  Did  you  put  down  what  happened 
in  a  note-book,  as  I  asked  you  ?" 

' '  Yes ;  here  it  is.  But  the  record  is  brief— only  names 
and  dates.  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  Helen !  How 
very,  very  glad !  It  seemed  as  if  you  would  never  come. " 
She  took  Helen's  hands,  and  held  them  as  she  spoke. 
She  was  very  deeply  attached  to  her  brilliant  friend. 

Helen  laughed,  kissed  her  again,  and  began  asking 
questions.  She  was  full  of  plans.  "Heretofore  they 
have  not  staid  at  Caryl's  in  the  autumn, "she  said,  "but 
this  year  I  shall  make  them.  September  and  part  of  Oc 
tober  would  be  pleasant  here,  I  know.  Has  any  one 
spoken  of  going  ?" 

"Mrs.  Bannert  has,  I  think." 

"You  mean  my  dearest  friend  Rachel.  But  she  will 
stay  now  that  I  have  come ;  that  is,  if  I  succeed  in  keep 
ing—somebody  else.  The  Bishop  has  been  devoted  to 
her,  of  course,  and  likewise  the  Tenor;  the  Haunted  Man 
and  others  skirmish  on  her  borders.  Even  the  Knight- 
errant  is  not,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  above  suspicion.  Who 
has  it  especially  been  ?" 

"I  do  not  know;  every  one  seems  to  admire  her.  I 
think  she  has  not  favored  one  more  than  another." 

"Oh,  has  she  not?"  said   Mrs.  Lorrington,  laughing.1 
"  It  is  well  I  have  come,  Crystal.     You  are  too  innocent 
to  live."     She  tapped  her  cheek  as  she  spoke,  and  then 


260  ANNE. 

turned  her  face  to  the  moonlight.  ' '  And  whom  do  you 
like  best  ?"  she  said.  "Mr.  Dexter  ?" 

"Yes, "said  Anne;  "I  like  him  sincerely.  And  you 
will  find  his  name  very  often  there,"  she  added,  looking 
at  the  note-book  by  Helen's  side. 

' '  Yes,  but  the  others  too,  I  hope.  What  J  want  to  know, 
of  course,  is  the  wicked  career  of  the  Knight-errant." 

' '  But  is  not  Mr.  Dexter  the  Knight-errant  ?" 

"By  no  means.  Mr.  Dexter  is  the  Bishop;  have  you 
not  discovered  that  ?  The  Knight-errant  is  very  decided 
ly  some  one  else.  And,  by-the-way,  how  do  you  like 
Some  One  Else— that  is,  Mr.  Heathcote  ?" 

"  Mr.  Heathcote !" 

"It  is  not  polite  to  repeat  one's  words,  Crystal.  But 
— I  suppose  you  do  not  like  him;  and  half  the  time,  I 
confess,  he  is  detestable.  However,  now  that  I  have 
come,  he  shall  behave  better,  and  I  shall  make  you  like 
each  other,  for  my  sake.  There  is  just  one  question  I 
wish  to  ask  here :  has  he  been  much  with  Rachel  ?" 

' '  No— yes— yes,  I  suppose  he  has, "  murmured  Anne,  sit 
ting  still  as  a  statue  in  the  shadow.  The  brassy  moon 
had  gone  slowly  and  coldly  behind  a  cloud,  and  the  room 
was  dim. 

"You  suppose  ?     Do  you  not  know  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  he  has."  She  stopped  abruptly.  She 
had  never  before  thought  whether  Heathcote  was  or  was 
not  with  Rachel  more  than  with  others ;  but  now  she  be 
gan  to  recall.  "Yes,  he  has  been  with  her,"  she  said 
again,  struck  by  a  sudden  pang. 

"Very  well ;  I  shall  see  to  it,  now  that  I  am  here,"  said 
Helen,  with  a  sharp  tone  in  her  voice.  ' '  He  will  perhaps 
be  sorry  that  I  have  arrived  just  at  the  end  of  the  season 
— the  time  for  grand  climaxes,  you  know;  but  he  will 
have  to  yield.  My  half -hour  is  over ;  I  must  go.  How 
is  the  Grand  Llama  ?  Endurable  ?" 

"She  is  helping  the  children;  I  am  grateful  to  her," 
replied  Anne's  voice,  mechanically. 

"  Which  means  that  she  is  worse  than  ever.  What  a 
dead-alive  voice  you  said  it  in !  Now  that  I  am  here,  I 
will  do  battle  for  you,  Crystal,  never  fear.  I  must  go. 


ANNE.  261 

You  shall  see  my  triumphal  entrance  to-morrow  at  break 
fast.     Our  rooms  are  not  far  from  yours.     Good-night." 
She  was  gone.     The  door  was  closed.     Anne  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  You  who  keep  account 
Of  crisis  and  transition  in  this  life, 
Set  down  the  first  time  Nature  says  plain  'no' 
To  some  'yes'  in  you,  and  walks  over  you 
In  gorgeous  sweeps  of  scorn.     We  all  begin 
By  singing  with  the  birds,  and  running  fast 
With  June  days  hand  in  hand ;  but,  once  for  all, 
The  birds  must  sing  against  us,  and  the  sun 
Strike  down  upon  us  like  a  friend's  sword,  caught 
By  an  enemy  to  slay  us,  while  we  read 
The  dear  name  on  the  blade  which  bites  at  us." 

— ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

IT  is  easy  for  the  young  to  be  happy  before  the  deep  feel 
ings  of  the  heart  have  been  stirred.  It  is  easy  to  be  good 
when  there  has  been  no  strong-  temptation  to  be  evil ;  easy 
to  be  unselfish  when  nothing  is  ardently  craved ;  easy  to 
be  faithful  when  faithfulness  does  not  tear  the  soul  out  of 
its  abiding-place.  Some  persons  pass  through  all  of  life 
without  strong  temptations;  not  having  deep  feelings, 
they  are  likewise  exempt  from  deep  sins.  These  pass 
for  saints.  But  when  one  thinks  of  the  cause  of  their 
faultlessness,  one  understands  perhaps  better  the  meaning 
of  those  words,  otherwise  mysterious,  that  "joy  shall  be 
in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,  more  than  over 
ninety  and  nine  just  persons,  which  need  no  repentance." 

Anne  went  through  that  night  her  first  real  torture ; 
heretofore  she  had  felt  only  grief — a  very  different  pain. 

Being  a  woman,  her  first  feeling,  even  before  the  con 
sciousness  of  what  it  meant,  was  jealousy.  What  did 
Helen  mean  by  speaking  of  him  as  though  he  belonged  to 
her  ?  She  had  never  spoken  in  that  way  before.  Al 
though  she — Anne — had  mistaken  the  fictitious  titles, 
still,  even  under  the  title,  there  had  been  no  such  open 
appropriation  of  the  Knight-errant.  What  did  she  mean  ? 


262  ANNE. 

And'then  into  this  burning-  jealous  anger  came  the  low- 
voiced  question,  asked  somewhere  down  in  the  depths  of 
her  being,  as  though  a  judge  was  speaking,  "  What— is— 
it— to— you?"  And  again,  ''What  is  it  to  you?"  She 
buried  her  face  tremblingly  in  her  hands,  for  all  at  once 
she  realized  what  it  was,  what  it  had  been,  unconscious 
ly  perhaps,  but  for  a  long  time  really,  to  her. 

She  made  no  attempt  at  self-deception.  Her  strongest 
trait  from  childhood  had  been  her  sincerity,  and  now  it 
would  not  let  her  go.  She  had  begun  to  love  Ward 
Heathcote  unconsciously,  but  now  she  loved  him  con 
sciously.  That  was  the  bare  fact.  It  confronted  her,  it 
loomed  above  her,  a  dark  menacing  shape,  from  whose 
presence  she  could  not  flee.  She  shivered,  and  her  breath 
seemed  to  stop  during  the  slow  moment  while  the  truth 
made  itself  known  to  her.  "O  God!"  she  murmured, 
bursting  into  tears ;  and  there  was  no  irreverence  in  the 
cry.  She  recognized  the  faithlessness  which  had  taken 
possession  of  her — unawares,  it  is  true,  yet  loyal  hearts 
are  not  conquered  so.  She  had  been  living  in  a  dream, 
and  had  suddenly  found  the  dream  reality,  and  the  actors 
flesh  and  blood— one  of  them  at  least,  a  poor  wildly  loving 
girl,  with  the  mark  of  Judas  upon  her  brow.  She  tried 
to  pray,  but  could  think  of  no  words.  .For  she  was  false  to 
East,  she  loved  Heathcote,  and  hated  Helen,  yet  could  not 
bring  herself  to  ask  that  any  of  these  feelings  should  1  e 
otherwise.  This  was  so  new  to  her  that  she  sank  down 
upon  the  floor  in  utter  despair  and  self-abasement.  She 
was  bound  to  East ;  she  was  bound  to  Helen.  Yet  she  had, 
in  her  heart  at  least,  betrayed  them  both. 

Still,  so  complex  is  human  nature  that  even  here  in 
the  midst  of  her  abasement  the  question  stole  in,  whis 
pering  its  way  along  as  it  came,  "Does  he  care  for  me  ?" 
And  "he"  was  not  East.  She  forgot  all  else  to  weigh, 
every  word  and  look  of  the  weeks  and  days  that  had 
passed.  Slowly  she  lived  over  in  memory  all  their  con 
versations,  not  forgetting  the  most  trivial,  and  even 
raised  her  arm  to  get  a  pillow  in  order  that  she  might 
lie  more  easily ;  but  the  little  action  brought  reality  again, 
and  her  arm  fell,  while  part  of  her  consciousness  drew 


"  SHE     BURIED    HER    FACE    TREMBLINGLY    IS    HER     HANDS. 


ANNE.  263 

off,  and  sat  in  judgment  upon  the  other  part.  The  sen 
tence  was  scathing;. 

Then  jealousy  seized  her  again.  She  had  admired  Hel 
en  so  warmly  as  a  woman,  that  even  now  she  could  not 
escape  the  feeling.  She  went  over  in  quick,  hot  review 
all  that  the  sweet  voice  and  delicate  lips  had  ever  said  con 
cerning  the  person  veiled  under  the  name  of  Knight-er 
rant,  and  the  result  was  a  miserable  conviction  that  she 
had  been  mistaken ;  that  there  was  a  tie  of  some  kind-  - 
slight,  perhaps,  yet  still  a  tie.  And  then,  as  she  crushed 
her  hands  together  in  impotent  anger,  she  again  realized 
what  she  was  thinking,  and  began  to  sob  in  her  grief  like 
a  child.  Poor  Anne !  she  would  never  be  a  child  again. 
Never  again  would  be  hers  that  proud  dauntless  confidence 
of  the  untried,  which  makes  all  life  seem  easy  and  secure. 
And  here  suddenly  into  her  grief  darted  this  new  and 
withering  thought :  Had  Heathcote  perceived  her  feeling 
for  him?  and  had  he  been  playing  upon  it  to  amuse  him 
self? 

Anne  knew  vaguely  that  people  treated  her  as  though 
she  was  hardly  more  than  a  child.  She  was  conscious  of 
it,  but  did  not  dispute  it,  accepting  it  humbly  as  something 
— some  fault  in  herself — which  she  could  not  change. 
But  now  the  sleeping  woman  was  aroused  at  last,  and  she 
blushed  deeply  in  the  darkness  at  the  thought  that  while 
she  had  remained  unconscious,  this  man  of  the  world  had 
perhaps  detected  the  truth  immediately,  and  had  acted  as 
he  had  in  consequence  of  it.  This  was  the  deepest  sting 
of  all,  and  again  hurriedly  she  went  over  all  their  con 
versations  a  second  time ;  and  imagined  that  she  found  in 
dications  of  what  she  feared.  She  rose  to  her  feet  with 
the  nervous  idea  of  fleeing  somewhere,  she  did  not  know 
where. 

The  night  had  passed.  The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but 
the  eastern  sky  was  waiting  for  his  coming  with  all  its 
banners  aflame.  Standing  by  the  window,  she  watched 
the  first  gold  rim  appear.  The  small  birds  were  twitter 
ing  in  the  near  trees,  the  earth  was  awaking  to  another 
day,  and  for  the  first  time  Anne  realized  the  joy  of  that 
part  of  creation  which  knows  not  sorrow  or  care;  for 


ANNE.  263 

off,  and  sat  in  judgment  upon  the  other  part.  The  sen 
tence  was  scathing1. 

Then  jealousy  seized  her  again.  She  had  admired  Hel 
en  so  warmly  as  a  woman,  that  even  now  she  could  not 
escape  the  feeling.  She  went  over  in  quick,  hot  review 
all  that  the  sweet  voice  and  delicate  lips  had  ever  said  con 
cerning  the  person  veiled  under  the  name  of  Knight-er 
rant,  and  the  result  was  a  miserable  conviction  that  she 
had  been  mistaken;  that  there  was  a  tie  of  some  kind-- 
slight,  perhaps,  yet  still  a  tie.  And  then,  as  she  crushed 
her  hands  together  in  impotent  anger,  she  again  realized 
what  she  was  thinking,  and  began  to  sob  in  her  grief  like 
a  child.  Poor  Anne !  she  would  never  be  a  child  again. 
Never  again  would  be  hers  that  proud  dauntless  confidence 
of  the  untried,  which  makes  all  life  seem  easy  and  secure. 
And  here  suddenly  into  her  grief  darted  this  new  and 
withering  thought :  Had  Heathcote  perceived  her  feeling 
for  him?  and  had  he  been  playing  upon  it  to  amuse  him 
self? 

Anne  knew  vaguely  that  people  treated  her  as  though 
she  was  hardly  more  than  a  child.  She  was  conscious  of 
it,  but  did  not  dispute  it,  accepting  it  humbly  as  something 
— some  fault  in  herself — which  she  could  not  change. 
But  now  the  sleeping  woman  was  aroused  at  last,  and  she 
blushed  deeply  in  the  darkness  at  the  thought  that  while 
she  had  remained  unconscious,  this  man  of  the  world  had 
perhaps  detected  the  truth  immediately,  and  had  acted  as 
he  had  in  consequence  of  it.  This  was  the  deepest  sting 
of  all,  and  again  hurriedly  she  went  over  all  their  con 
versations  a  second  time ;  and  imagined  that  she  found  in 
dications  of  what  she  feared.  She  rose  to  her  feet  with 
the  nervous  idea  of  fleeing  somewhere,  she  did  not  know 
where. 

The  night  had  passed.  The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but 
the  eastern  sky  was  waiting  for  his  coming  with  all  its 
banners  aflame.  Standing  by  the  window,  she  watched 
the  first  gold  rim  appear.  The  small  birds  were  twitter 
ing  in  the  near  trees,  the  earth  was  awaking  to  another 
day,  and  for  the  first  time  Anne  realized  the  joy  of  that 
part  of  creation  which  knows  not  sorrow  or  care;  for 


264  ANNE. 

the  first  time  wished  herself  a  flower  of  the  field,  or  a 
sweet-voiced  bird  singing  his  happy  morning  anthem  on 
a  spray.  There  were  three  hours  yet  before  breakfast, 
two  before  any  one  would  be  stirring.  She  dressed  her 
self,  stole  through  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs,  un 
bolted  the  side  door,  and  went  into  the  garden ;  she  long 
ed  for  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air.  Her  steps  led 
her  toward  the  arbor;  she  stopped,  and  turned  in  anoth 
er  direction — toward  the  bank  of  the  little  river.  Here 
she  began  to  walk  to  and  fro  from  a  pile  of  drift-wood  to 
a  bush  covered  with  dew-drops,  from  the  bush  back  to 
the  drift-wood  again.  Her  feet  were  wet,  her  head  ached 
dully,  but  she  kept  her  mind  down  to  the  purpose  before 
her.  The  nightmare  of  the  darkness  was  gone;  she  now 
faced  her  grief,  and  knew  what  it  was,  and  had  decided 
upon  her  course.  This  course  was  to  leave  Caryl's. 
She  hoped  to  return  to  Mademoiselle  at  the  half-house, 
and  remain  there  until  the  school  opened — if  her  grand- 
aunt  was  willing.  If  her  grandaunt  was  willing — there 
came  the  difficulty.  Yet  why  should  she  not  be  willing  ? 
The  season  was  over ;  the  summer  flowers  were  gone  ; 
it  was  but  anticipating  departure  by  a  week  or  two. 
Thus  she  reasoned  with  herself,  yet  felt  all  the  time  by 
intuition  that  Miss  Vanhorn  would  refuse  her  consent. 
And  if  she  should  so  refuse,  what  then  ?  It  could  make 
no  difference  in  the  necessity  for  going,  but  it  would  make 
the  going  hard.  She  was  considering  this  point  when  she 
heard  a  footstep.  She  looked  up,  and  saw — Ward  Heath- 
cote.  She  had  been  there  some  time ;  it  was  now  seven 
o'clock.  They  both  heard  the  old  clock  in  the  office 
strike  as  they  stood  there  looking  at  each  other.  In  half 
an  hour  the  early  risers  would  be  coming  into  the  garden. 
Anne  did  not  move  or  speak ;  the  great  effort  she  had 
made  to  retain  her  composure,  when  she  saw  him,  kept 
her  motionless  and  dumb.  Her  first  darting  thought  had 
been  to  show  him  that  she  was  at  ease  and  indifferent. 
But  this  required  words,  and  she  had  not  one  ready ;  she 
was  afraid  to  speak,  too,  lest  her  voice  should  tremble. 
She  saw,  standing  there  before  her,  the  man  who  had 
made  her  forget  Rast,  who  had  made  her  jealous  of  Hel- 


ANNE.  265 

en,  who  had  played  with  her  holiest  f eelings,  who  had  de 
ceived  and  laughed  at  her,  the  man  whom  she — hated  ? 
No,  no — whom  she  loved,  loved,  loved :  this  was  the  des 
perate  ending.  She  turned  very  white,  standing  motion 
less  beside  the  dew-spangled  bush. 

And  Heathcote  saw,  standing  there  before  him,  a  young 
girl  with  her  fair  face  strangely  pale  and  worn,  her  eyes 
fixed,  her  lips  compressed;  she  was  trembling  slightly 
and  constantly,  in  spite  of  the  rigidity  of  her  attitude. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment ;  then, 
knocking  down  at  one  blow  all  the  barriers  she  had 
erected,  he  came  to  her  and  took  her  cold  hands  in  his. 
"What  is  it  she  has  said  to  you ?"  he  asked. 

She  drew  herself  away  without  speaking. 

"What  has  Helen  said  to  you?  Has  she  told  you 
that  I  have  deceived  you  ?  That  I  have  played  a  part  ?" 

But  Anne  did  not  answer ;  she  turned,  as  if  to  pass  him. 

"You  shall  not  leave  me,"  he  said,  barring  the  way. 
"Stay  a  moment,  Anne ;  I  promise  not  to  keep  you  long. 
You  will  not  ?  But  you  shall.  Am  I  nothing  in  all 
this  ?  My  feelings  nothing  ?  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing : 
whatever  Helen  may  have  said,  remember  that  it  was  all 
before  I  knew — you." 

Anne's  hands  shook  in  his  as  he  said  this.  "Let  me 
go, "she  cried,  with  low,  quick  utterance;  she  dared  not 
say  more,  lest  her  voice  should  break  into  sobs. 

"I  will  not,"  said  Heathcote,  "until  you  hear  mo 
while  I  tell  you  that  I  have  not  played  a  false  part  with 
you,  Anne.  I  did  begin  it  as  an  experiment,  I  confess 
that  I  did ;  but  I  have  ended  by  being  in  earnest— at  leact 
to  a  certain  degree.  Helen  does  not  know  me  entirely ; 
one  side  of  me  she  has  never  even  suspected." 

"Mrs.  Lorringtoii  has  not  spoken  on  the  subject," 
murmured  Anne,  feeling  compelled  to  set  him  right,  but 
not  looking  up. 

"Then  what  has  she  said  about  me,  that  you  should 
look  as  you  do,  my  poor  child  ?" 

"You  take  too  much  upon  yourself,"  replied  the  girl, 
with  an  effort  to  speak  scornfully.  ' '  Why  should  you 
suppose  we  have  talked  of  you  ?" 


266  ANNE. 

"  I  do  not  suppose  it ;  I  know  it.  I  have  not  the  heart 
to  laugh  at  you,  Anne:  your  white  face  hurts  me  like  a 
sharp  pain.  Will  you  at  least  tell  me  that  you  do  not 
believe  I  have  been  amusing  myself  at  your  expense — 
that  you  do  not  believe  I  have  been  insincere  ?" 

' '  I  am  glad  to  think  that  you  were  not  wholly  insincere. " 

"And  you -will  believe  also  that  I  like  you — like  you 
very,  very  much,  with  more  than  the  ordinary  liking  ?" 

"  That  is  nothing  to  me." 

' '  Nothing  to  you  ?  Look  at  me,  Anne ;  you  shall  look 
once.  Ah,  my  dear  child,  do  you  not  see  that  I  can  not 
help  loving  you  ?  And  that  you — love  me  also  ?"  As  he 
spoke  he  drew  her  close  and  looked  down  into  her  eyes, 
those  startled  violet  eyes,  that  met  his  at  last — for  one 
half-moment. 

Then  she  sprang  from  him,  and  burst  into  tears. 
"Leave  me,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "You  are  cruel." 

"No;  only  human,"  answered  Heathcote,  not  quite 
master  of  his  words  now.  ' '  I  have  had  your  confession 
in  that  look,  Anne,  and  you  shall  never  regret  it." 

' '  I  regret  it  already, "  she  cried,  passionately ;  "I  shall 
regret  it  all  my  life.  Do  you  not  comprehend  ?  can  you 
not  understand?  I  am  engaged — engaged  to  be  mar 
ried.  I  was  engaged  before  we  ever  met." 

"  You  engaged,  when  I  thought  you  hardly  more  than 
a  child!"  He  had  been  dwelling  only  upon  himself  and 
his  own  course;  possibilities  on  the  other  side  had  not  oc 
curred  to  him.  They  seldom  do  to  much-admired  men. 

"  I  can  not  help  what  you  thought  me,"  replied  Anne. 
At  this  moment  they  heard  a  step  011  the  piazza ;  some  one 
had  come  forth  to  try  the  morning  air.  Where  they 
stood  they  were  concealed,  but  from  the  garden  walk 
they  would  be  plainly  visible. 

"Leave  me,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

"I  will;  I  will  cross  the  field,  and  approach  the  house 
by  the  road,  so  that  you  will  be  quite  safe.  But  I  shall 
see  you  again,  Anne. "  He  bent  his  head,  and  touched  her 
hand  with  his  lips,  then  sprang  over  the  stone  wall,  and 
was  gone,  crossing  the  fields  toward  the  distant  turnpike. 

Anne  returned  to  the  house,  exchanging  greetings  as 


ANNE.  267 

she  passed  with  the  well-preserved  jaunty  old  gentleman 
who  was  walking  up  and  down  the  piazza  twenty-five 
times  before  breakfast.  She  sought  her  own  room, 
dressed  herself  anew,  and  then  tapped  at  her  grandaunt's 
door;  the  routine  of  the  day  had  her  in  its  iron  grasp, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  follow  its  law. 

Mrs.  Lorrington  came  in  to  breakfast  like  a  queen :  it 
was  a  royal  progress.  Miss  Teller  walked  behind  in  amia 
ble  majesty,  and  gathered  up  the  overflow ;  that  is,  she 
shook  hands  cordially  with  those  who  could  not  reach 
Helen,  and  smiled  especially  upon  thoso  whom  Helen 
disliked.  Helen  was  robed  in  a  soft  white  woollen  ma 
terial  that  clung  closely  about  her ;  she  had  never  seem 
ed  more  slender.  Her  pale  hair,  wound  round  her  small 
head,  conveyed  the  idea  that,  unbound,  it  would  fall  to 
the  hem  of  her  dress.  She  wore  110  ornaments,  not  even 
a  ring  on  her  small  fair  hands.  Her  place  wras  at  some 
distance  from  Miss  Vanhorn  ?s  table,  but  as  soon  as  she 
was  seated  she  bowed  to  Anne,  and  smiled  with  marked 
friendliness.  Anne  returned  the  salutation,  and  wonder 
ed  that  people  did  not  cry  out  and  ask  her  if  she  was  dy 
ing.  But  life  does  not  go  out  so  easily  as  miserable 
young  girls  imagine. 

"  Eggs  ?"  said  the  waiter. 

She  took  one. 

"I  thought  you  did  not  like  eggs,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn. 
She  was  in  an  ill-humor  that  morning  because  Bessmer 
had  upset  the  plant-drying  apparatus,  composed  of  bricks 
and  boards. 

"Yes,  thanks,"  said  Anne,  vaguely.  Mr.  Dexter  was 
bowing  good-morning  to  her  at  that  moment,  and  she 
returned  the  salutation.  Miss  Vanhorn,  observing  this, 
withheld  her  intended  rebuke  for  inattention.  Dexter 
had  bowed  on  his  way  across  to  Helen ;  he  had  finished 
his  own  breakfast,  and  now  took  a  seat  beside  Miss  Teller 
and  Mrs.  Lorrington.  At  this  instant  a  servant  entered 
bearing  a  basket  of  flowers,  not  the  old-fashioned  coun 
try  flowers  of  Caryl's,  but  the  superb  cream-colored  roses 
of  the  city,  each  on  its  long  stalk,  reposing  on  a  bed  of 
unmixed  heliotrope,  Helen's  favorite  flower.  All  eyes 


268  ANNE. 

coveted  the  roses  as  they  passed,  and  watched  to  see 
their  destination.  They  were  presented  to  Mrs.  Lorring- 
ton. 

Every  one  supposed  that  Dexter  was  the  giver.  The 
rich  gift  was  like  him,  and  perhaps  also  the  time  of  its 
presentation.  But  the  time  was  a  mistake  of  the  servant's ; 
and  was  not  Mrs.  Lorrington  bowing  her  thanks  ? — yes, 
she  was  bowing  her  thanks,  with  a  little  air  of  con 
sciousness,  yet  with  openness  also,  to  Mr.  Heathcote,  who 
sat  by  himself  at  the  end  of  the  long  room.  He  bowed 
gravely  in  return,  thus  acknowledging  himself  the  sender. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  crossly,  yet  with  a  little 
shade  of  relief  too  in  her  voice,  "of  all  systematic  co 
quettes,  Helen  Lorrington  is  our  worst.  I  suppose  that 
we  shall  have  no  peace,  now  that  she  has  come.  How 
ever,  it  will  not  last  long." 

"You  will  go  away  soon,  then,  grandaunt?"  said 
Anne,  eagerly. 

Miss  Vanhorn  put  up  her  eyeglass ;  the  tone  had  be 
trayed  something.  "No,"  she  said,  inspecting  her  niece 
coolly;  "nothing  of  the  sort.  I  shall  remain  through 
September,  perhaps  later." 

Anne's  heart  sank.  She  would  be  obliged,  then,  to  go 
through  the  ordeal.  She  could  eat  nothing ;  a  choking 
sensation  had  risen  in  her  throat  when  Heathcote  bowed 
to  Helen,  acknowledging  the  flowers.  * '  May  I  go,  grand- 
aunt  ?"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  feel  well  this  morning." 

"No;  finish  your  breakfast  like  a  Christian.  I  hate 
sensations.  However,  011  second  thoughts,  you  may  go," 
added  the  old  woman,  glancing  at  Dexter  and  Helen. 
' '  You  may  as  well  be  re-arranging  those  specimens  that 
Bessmer  stupidly  knocked  down.  But  do  not  let  me  find 
the  Lorrington  in  my  parlor  when  I  come  up;  do  you 
hear  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne,  escaping.  She  ran  up  stairs  to  her 
own  room,  locked  the  door,  and  then  stood  pressing  her 
hands  upon  her  heart,  crying  out  in  a  whisper:  "Oh, 
what  shall  I  do !  What  shall  I  do !  How  can  I  bear  it !" 
But  she  could  not  have  even  that  moment  unmolested: 
the  day  had  begun,  and  its  burdens  she  must  bear. 


ANNE.  26g 

Bessmer  knocked,  and  began  at  once  tremulously  about 
the  injured  plants  through  the  closed  door. 

"Yes, "said  Anne,  opening  it,  "I  know  about  them. 
I  came  up  to  re-arrange  them." 

' '  It  wouldenter  been  so  bad,  miss,  if  it  hadenter  been 
asters.  But  I  never  could  make  out  asters ;  they  all  seem 
of  a  piece  to  me,"  said  Bessmer,  while  Anne  sorted  the 
specimens,  and  replaced  them  within  the  drying-sheets. 
' '  Every  fall  there's  the  same  time  with  'em.  I  just  dread 
asters,  I  do;  not  but  what  golden-rods  is  almost  worse." 

"  Anne,"  said  a  voice  in  the  hall. 

Anne  opened  the  door;  it  was  Helen,  with  her  roses. 

"These  are  the  Grand  Llama's  apartments,  I  suppose," 
she  said,  peeping  in.  "I  will  not  enter;  merely  gaze 
over  the  sacred  threshold.  Come  to  my  room,  Crys 
tal,  for  half  an  hour;  I  am  going  to  drive  at  eleven." 

"I  must  finish  arranging  these  plants." 

"Then  come  when  you  have  finished.  Do  not  fail; 
I  shall  wait  for  you."  And  the  white  robe  floated  off 
down  the  dark  sidling  hall,  as  Miss  Vanhorn's  heavy  foot 
made  itself  heard  ascending  the  stairs.  When  Bessmer 
had  gone  to  her  breakfast,  to  collect  what  strength  she 
could  for  another  aster-day,  Anne  summoned  her  courage. 

"  Grandaunt,  I  would  like  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

' '  And  I  do  not  want  to  be  spoken  to ;  I  have  neuralgia 
in  my  cheek-bones." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  tell  you—" 

"  And  I  do  not  want  to  be  told.  You  are  always  get 
ting  up  sensations  of  one  kind  or  another,  which  amount 
to  nothing  in  the  end.  Be  ready  to  drive  to  Updegraff's 
glen  at  eleven;  that  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you  now." 
She  went  into  the  inner  room,  and  closed  the  door. 

"It  does  not  make  any  difference,"  thought  Anne, 
drearily;  "I  shall  tell  her  at  eleven." 

Then,  nerving  herself  for  another  kind  of  ordeal,  she 
went  slowly  toward  Helen's  apartments. 

But  conventionality  is  a  strong  power :  she  passed  the 
first  fifteen  minutes  of  conversation  without  faltering. 

Then  Helen  said:  "You  look  pale,  Crystal.  What  is 
the  matter?" 


272  ANNE. 

might  have  learned  something  more;  but  she  did  not 
question,  she  relied  upon  her  own  sagacity.  It  is  a  dis 
pensation  of  Providence  that  the  old,  no  matter  how 
crowded  their  own  youth  may  have  been,  always  forget. 
What  old  Katharine  now  forgot  was  this :  if  a  man  like 
Gregory  Dexter  is  conspicuously  devoted  to  one  woman, 
but  always  in  the  presence  of  others,  making  no  attempt 
to  secure  her  attention  for  a  few  moments  alone  here  and 
there,  it  is  probable  that  there  is  another  woman  for 
whom  he  keeps  those  moments,  and  a  hidden  feeling 
stronger  than  the  one  openly  displayed.  Rachel  never 
allowed  observable  devotion.  This,  however,  did  not 
forbid  the  unobserved. 

' '  Grandaunt, "  began  Anne,  as  the  carriage  rolled  along 
the  country  road.  Her  voice  faltered  a  little,  and  she 
paused  to  steady  it. 

"Wait  a  day,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  with  grim  sarcasm ; 
' '  then  there  will  be  nothing  to  tell.  It  is  always  so  with 
girls." 

It  was  her  nearest  approach  to  good-humor :  Anne  took 
courage.  "The  summer  is  nearly  over,  grandaunt — " 

"I  have  an  almanac." 

' '  — and,  as  school  will  soon  begin — 

"  In  about  three  weeks." 

"  — I  should  like  to  go  back  to  Mademoiselle  until  then, 
if  you  do  not  object." 

Miss  Vanhorn  put  up  her  eyeglass,  and  looked  at  her 
niece ;  then  she  laughed,  sought  for  a  caraway-seed,  and 
by  good  luck  found  one,  and  deposited  it  safely  in  the 
tight  grasp  of  her  glittering  teeth.  She  thought  Anne 
was  jealous  of  Mr.  Dexter' s  attentions  to  Helen. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  child,"  she  said,  still  laugh 
ing.  ' '  If  you  have  a  rival,  it  is  the  Egyptian,  and  not 
that  long  white  creature  you  call  your  friend." 

"I  am  unhappy  here,  grandaunt.     Please  let  me  go." 

"Girls  are  always  unhappy,  or  thinking  themselves 
so.  It  is  one  of  their  habits.  Of  course  you  can  not  go ; 
it  would  be  too  ridiculous  giving  way  to  any  such  child 
ish  feeling.  You  will  stay  as  long  as  I  stay." 

"  But  I  can  not.     I  must  go." 


ANNE.  273 

"  And  who  holds  the  authority,  pray  ?" 

"  Dear  grandaunt,  do  not  compel  me,"  said  Anne,  seiz 
ing-  the  old  woman's  hands  in  hers.  But  Miss  Vanhorn 
drew  them  away  angrily. 

' '  What  nonsense !"  she  said.  ' '  Do  not  let  me  hear  an 
other  word.  You  will  stay  according  to  my  pleasure 
(which  should  be  yours  also),  or  you  forfeit  your  second 
winter  at  Moreau's  and  the  children's  allowance."  She 
tapped  on  the  glass,  and  signaled  to  the  coachman  to  drive 
homeward.  "  You  have  spoiled  the  drive  with  your  ob 
stinacy  ;  I  do  not  care  to  go  now.  Spend  the  day  in  your 
own  room.  At  five  o'clock  come  to  me." 

And  at  five  Anne  came, 

"Have  you  found  your  senses  ?"  asked  the  elder  wo 
man,  and  more  gently. 

"I  have  not  changed  my  mind." 

Miss  Vanhorn  rose  and  locked  the  door.  * '  You  will 
now  give  me  your  reasons,"  she  said. 

"I  can  not." 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  not." 

Anne  was  silent,  and  Miss  Yanhorn  surveyed  her 
for  a  moment  before  letting  loose  the  dogs  of  war. 
In  her  trouble  the  girl  looked  much  older  ;  it  was  a 
grave,  sad,  but  determined  woman  who  was  standing 
there  to  receive  her  sentence,  and  suddenly  the  inquisitor 
changed  her  course. 

"There,  there," she  said;  "  never  mind  about  it  now. 
Go  back  to  your  room ;  Bessmer  shall  bring  you  some 
tea,  and  then  you  will  let  her  dress  you  precisely  as  I 
shall  order.  You  will  not,  I  trust,  disobey  me  in  so 
small  a  matter  as  that  ?" 

"And  may  I  go  to-morrow  ?" 

We  will  see.     You  can  not  go  to-night,  at  any  rate ; 
so  do  as  I  bid  you." 

Anne  obeyed ;  but  she  was  disappointed  that  all  was 
not  ended  and  the  contest  over.  For  the  young,  to  wait 
seems  harder  than  to  suffer. 

Miss  Vanhorn  thought  that  her  niece  was  jealous  of  Hel 
en  in  regard  to  Dexter,  and  that  this  jealousy  had  opened 
her  eyes  for  the  first  time  to  her  own  faithlessness ;  being 

18 


274  .     ANNE. 

conscientious,  of  course  she  was,  between  the  two  feelings, 
made  very  wretched.  And  the  old  woman's  solution  of 
the  difficulty  was  to  give  Dexter  one  more  and  perfect  op 
portunity,  if  she,  Katharine  Vanhorn,  could  arrange  it. 
And  there  was,  in  truth,  very  little  that  old  Katharine 
could  not  arrange  if  she  chose,  since  she  was  a  woman 
not  afraid  to  use  on  occasion  that  which  in  society  is  the 
equivalent  of  force,  namely,  directness.  She  was  capa 
ble  of  saying,  openly,  ' '  Mr.  Dexter,  will  you  take  Anne 
out  on  the  piazza  for  a  while  ?  The  air  is  close  here," 
and  then  of  smiling  back  upon  Rachel,  Isabel,  or  who 
ever  was  left  behind,  with  the  malice  of  a  Mazarin. 
Chance  favored  old  Katharine  that  night  once  and  again. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  That  which  is  not  allotted,  the  hand  can  not  reach,  and  what  is 
allotted  will  find  you  wherever  you  may  be.-  You  have  heard  with  what 
toil  Secunder  penetrated  to  the  land  of  darkness,  and  that,  after  all,  he 
did  not  taste  the  water  of  immortality." — SAADI. 

"  When  a  woman  hath  ceased  to  be  quite  the  same  to  us,  it  mat 
ters  little  how  different  she  becomes." — WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

THE  last  dance  of  the  season  had  been  appointed  for 
the  evening,  and  Mrs.  Lorrington's  arrival  had  stimu 
lated  the  others  to  ordain  "full  dress";  they  all  had  one 
costume  in  reserve,  and  it  was  an  occasion  to  bring  all 
the  banners  upon  the  field,  and  the  lance  also,  in  a  last 
tournament.  Other  contests,  other  rivalries,  had  existed, 
other  stories  besides  this  story  of  Anne ;  it  never  happens 
in  real  life  that  one  woman  usurps  everything.  That  this 
dance  should  occur  on  this  particular  evening  was  one 
of  the  chances  vouchsafed  to  old  Katharine  and  her 
strategy. 

For  the  fairest  costume  ordered  for  Anne  had  not  been 
worn,  and  at  ten  o'clock  Bessmer  with  delight  was  ask 
ing  a  white-robed  figure  to  look  at  itself  in  the  glass,  while 
on  her  knees  she  spread  out  the  cloud  of  fleecy  drapery 
that  trailed  softly  over  the  floor  behind.  The  robe  was  of 


ANNE.  275 

white  lace,  and  simple.  But  nothing  could  have  brought 
out  so  strongly  the  rich,  noble  beauty  of  this  young  face 
and  form.  There  was  not  an  ornament  to  break  the  out 
line  of  the  round  white  throat,  or  the  beautiful  arms, 
bared  from  the  shoulder.  For  the  first  time  the  thick 
brown  hair  was  released  from  its  school-girl  simplicity, 
and  Anne's  face  wore  a  new  aspect,  as  young  faces  will 
under  such  changes.  For  one  may  be  sorrowful,  and 
even  despairing,  yet  at  eighteen  a  few  waving  locks  will 
make  a  fair  face  fairer  than  ever,  even  in  spite  of  one's 
own  determined  opposition. 

When  they  entered  the  ball-room,  the  second  chance 
vouchsafed  to  old  Katharine  came  to  meet  them,  and  no 
strategy  was  necessary.  For  Mr.  Dexter,  with  an  un 
wonted  color  on  his  face,  offered  his  arm  to  Anne  imme 
diately,  asking  for  that  dance,  and  ' '  as  many  dances  be 
sides  as  you  can  give  me,  Miss  Douglas." 

All  who  were  near  heard  his  words;  among  them 
Rachel.  She  looked  at  him  with  soft  deprecation  in  her 
eyes.  But  he  returned  her  gaze  directly  and  haughtily, 
and  bore  Anne  away.  They  danced  once,  and  then  went 
out  on  the  piazza.  It  was  a  cool  evening,  and  presently 
Miss  Vanhorn  came  to  the  window.  "  It  is  too  damp  for 
you  here,  child, "  she  said.  ' '  If  you  do  not  care  to  dance, 
take  Mr.  Dexter  up  to  see  the  flowers  in  our  parlor;  and 
when  you  comedown,  bring  my  shawl." 

"Mr.  Dexter  does  not  care  about  flowers,  I  think," 
answered  Anne,  too  absorbed  in  her  own  troubles  to  be 
concerned  about  her  graiidaunt's  open  manoeuvre.  She 
spoke  mechanically. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am  very  fond  of  flowers,"  said 
Dexter,  rising  immediately.  "And  I  particularly  thank 
you,  Miss  Vanhorn,  for  giving  me  this  opportunity  to — 
admire  them."  He  spoke  with  emphasis,  and  bowed  as 
he  spoke.  The  old  lady  gave  him  a  stately  inclination 
in  return.  They  understood  each  other ;  the  higher  pow 
ers  were  agreed. 

When  Anne,  still  self-absorbed  and  unconscious,  enter 
ed  the  little  parlor,  she  was  surprised  to  find  it  brightly 
lighted  and  prepared,  as  if  for  their  reception.  The  red 


276  ANNE. 

curtains  were  closed,  a  small  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth, 
the  rich  perfume  of  the  flowers  filled  the  warm  air;  in 
the  damp  September  evening  the  room  was  a  picture  of 
comfort,  and  in  the  ruddy  light  her  own  figure,  in  its 
white  lace  dress,  was  clearly  outlined  and  radiant. 
"Here  are  the  flowers,"  she  said,  going  toward  the  table. 
Dexter  had  closed  the  door ;  he  now  came  forward,  and 
looked  at  the  blossoms  a  moment  absently.  Then  he 
turned  toward  the  sofa,  which  was  covered  with  the  same 
red  chintz  which  hung  over  the  windows  to  the  floor. 

* '  Shall  we  sit  here  awhile  ?  The  room  is  pleasant,  if 
you  are  in  no  hurry  to  return." 

"  No,  I  am  in  no  hurry,"  replied  Anne.  She  was  glad 
to  be  quiet  and  away  from  the  dancers;  she  feared  to 
meet  Heathcote.  «  Mr.  Dexter  always  talked ;  she  would 
not  be  obliged  to  think  of  new  subjects,  or  to  make  long 
replies. 

But  to-night  Mr.  Dexter  was  unusually  silent.  She 
leaned  back  against  the  red  cushions,  and  looked  at  the 
point  of  her  slipper;  she  was  asking  herself  how  long 
this  evening  would  last. 

"Miss  Douglas,"  began  Dexter  at  length,  and  some 
what  abruptly,  "  I  do  not  know  in  what  light  you  re 
gard  me,  or  what  degree  of  estimation  you  have  con 
ferred  upon  me ;  but —  Here  he  paused. 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  Anne. 

"What?" 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  rousing  herself  from  her  abstrac 
tion,  "that  it  does  not  matter  one  way  or  the  other. 
I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  Mr.  Dexter.  I  see  now  that 
I  ought  never  to  have  come.  But — how  could  I  know  ?" 

"Why  do  you  go?"  said  her  companion,  pausing  a 
moment  also,  in  his  own  train  of  thought. 

"I  have  duties  elsewhere,"  she  began;  then  stopped. 
*'  But  that  is  not  the  real  reason,"  she  added. 

"You  are  unhappy,  Miss  Douglas;  I  can  always  read 
your  face.  I  will  not  obtrude  questions  now,  although 
most  desirous  to  lift  the  burdens  which  are  resting  upon 
you.  For  I  have  something  to  ask  you.  Will  you  listen 
to  me  for  a  few  moments  ?" 


ANNE.  277 

"  Oh.  yes,"  said  Anne,  falling  back  into  apathy,  her 
eyes  still  on  the  point  of  her  slipper. 

"It  is  considered  egotistical  to  talk  of  one's  self,"  be 
gan  Dexter,  after  a  short  silence ;  ' '  but,  under  the  circum 
stances,  I  trust  I  may  be  pardoned."  He  took  an  easier 
attitude,  and  folded  his  arms.  "I  was  born  in  New 
Hampshire. "  (Here  Anne  tried  to  pay  attention ;  from 
this  beginning,  she  felt  that  she  must  attend.  But  she 
only  succeeded  in  repeating,  vaguely,  the  word  ' '  New 
Hampshire  ?"  as  though  she  had  reasons  for  thinking  it 
might  be  Maine.) 

"Yes,  New  Hampshire.  My  father  was  a  farmer 
there;  but  when  I  was  five  years  old  he  died,  and  my 
mother  died  during  the  following  year.  A  rich  relative, 
a  cousin,  living  in  Illinois,  befriended  me,  homeless  as 
I  was,  and  gave  me  that  best  gift  in  America,  a  good 
education.  I  went  through  college,  and  then — found  my 
self  penniless.  My  cousin  had  died  without  a  will,  and 
others  had  inherited  his  estate.  Since  then,  Miss  Doug 
las,  I  have  led  a  life  of  effort,  hard,  hard  work,  and  bit 
ter  fluctuations.  I  have  taught  school ;  I  have  dug  in 
the  mines;  I  have  driven  a  stage;  I  have  been  lost  in 
the  desert,  and  have  lived  for  days  upon  moss  and  berries. 
Once  I  had  a  hundred  thousand  dollars — the  result  of  in- 
tensest  labor  and  vigilance  through  ten  long  years — and 
I  lost  it  in  an  hour.  Then  for  three  days,  shovel  in 
hand,  I  worked  on  an  embankment.  I  tell  you  all  this 
plainly,  so  that  if  it,  or  any  part  of  it,  ever  comes  up, 
you  will  not  feel  that  you  have  been  deceived.  The  lead 
ing  power  of  my  whole  life  has  been  action ;  whether  for 
good  or  for  ill — action.  I  am  now  thirty-eight  years  old, 
and  I  think  I  may  say  that  I — am  no  worse  than  other 
men.  The  struggle  is  now  over ;  I  am  rich.  I  will 
even  tell  you  the  amount  of  my  fortune — " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Anne,  hurriedly. 

"I  prefer  to  do  so,"  replied  Dexter,  with  a  formal 
gesture.  "I  wish  you  to  understand  clearly  the  whole 
position,  both  as  regards  myself  and  all  my  affairs." 

"Myself  and  all  my  affairs,"  repeated  itself  buzzing- 
ly  in  Anne's  brain. 


278  ANNE. 

' '  My  property  is  now  estimated  at  a  little  more  than  a 
million,  and  without  doubt  it  will  increase  in  value,  as 
it  consists  largely  of  land,  and  especially  mines." 

He  paused.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had  not  succeed 
ed  in  controlling  a  certain  pride  in  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
and  he  stopped  to  remedy  it.  In  truth,  he  was  proud. 
No  one  but  the  man  who  has  struggled  and  labored  for 
that  sum,  unaided  and  alone,  knows  how  hard  it  is  to  win 
it,  and  how  rare  and  splendid  has  been  his  own  success. 
He  has  seen  others  go  down  on  all  sides  of  him  like  grain 
before  the  scythe,  while  he  stood  upright.  He  knows  of 
disappointed  hopes,  of  bitter  effort  ended  in  the  grave;  of 
men,  strong  and  fearless  as  himself,  who  have  striven  des 
perately,  and  as  desperately  failed.  He  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  thinking  of  these  things. 

"It  must  be  pleasant  to  have  so  much  money,"  said 
Anne,  sighing  a  little,  and  turning  her  slipper  point  slight 
ly,  as  though  to  survey  it  in  profile. 

Dexter  went  on  with  his  tale.  He  was  as  much  for  the 
moment  absorbed  in  himself  as  she  was  in  herself;  they 
were  like  two  persons  shut  up  in  closely  walled  towers 
side  by  side. 

"For  some  years  I  have  lived  at  the  East,  and  have 
been  much  in  what  is  called  society  in  New  York  and 
Washington,"  he  continued,  "  and  I  have  had  no  cause 
to  be  dissatisfied  with  the  reception  accorded  to  me.  I 
have  seen  many  beautiful  faces,  and  they  have  not  entire 
ly  withheld  their  kindness  from  me.  But — Miss  Doug 
las,  young  girls  like  romance,  and  I  have,  unfortunate 
ly,  little  that  I  can  express,  although  I  believe  that  I  have 
at  heart  more  true  chivalry  toward  women  than  twenty 
of  the  idle  blase  men  about  here.  But  that  had  been  bet 
ter  left  unsaid.  What  I  wish  to  say  to  you  is  this :  will 
you  be  my  wife  ?  Anne,  dear  child,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 
He  had  ended  abruptly,  and  even  to  himself  unexpected 
ly,  as  though  his  usually  fluent  speech  had  failed  him. 
He  took  her  hand,  and  waited  for  her  answer,  his  face 
showing  signs  of  emotion,  which  seemed  to  be  more  his 
own  than  roused  by  anything  in  her. 

Anne  had  started  back  in  surprise;  she  drew  her  hand 


ANNE.  279 

from  his.  They  were  both  gloved ;  only  the  kid-skins  had 
touched  each  other.  "  You-are  making  a  mistake,''  she 
said,  rising.  "You  think  I  am  Mrs.  Lorrington." 

Dexter  had  risen  also;  an  involuntary  smile  passed 
over  his  face  at  her  words.  He  took  her  hand  again,  and 
held  it  firmly. 

"Do  you  not  suppose  I  know  to  whom  I  am  talking  ?" 
he  said.  "I  am  talking  to  you,  Anne,  and  thinking 
only  of  you.  I  ask  you  again,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?" 

"Of  course  not.  You  do  not  love  me  in  the  least, 
and  I  do  not  love  you.  Of  what  are  you  dreaming,  Mr. 
Dexter  ?"  She  walked  across  the  little  room,  and  stood 
between  the  windows,  the  red  light  full  upon  her.  A 
brightness  had  risen  in  her  eyes ;  she  looked  very  beauti 
ful  in  her  youthful  scorn. 

Dexter  gazed  at  her,  but  without  moving.  ' '  You  are 
mistaken,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  I  do  love  you." 

"  Since  when  ?"  asked  the  sweet  voice,  with  a  touch  of 
sarcasm.  Anne  was  now  using  the  powers  of  conceal 
ment  which  nature  gives  to  all  women,  even  the  young 
est,  as  a  defense.  Mr.  Dexter  should  know  nothing,  should 
not  be  vouchsafed  even  a  glimpse,  of  her  inner  feelings ; 
she  would  simply  refuse  him,  as  girls  did  in  books. 
And  she  tried  to  think  what  they  said. 

But  the  man  opposite  her  was  not  like  a  man  in  a 
book.  "Since  six  o'clock  this  evening,"  he  answered, 
quietly. 

Anne  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  hear  the  whole  ?"  he  asked. 

1 '  No ;  it  is  nothing  to  me.  Since  you  only  began  at 
six,  probably  you  can  stop  at  twelve,"  she  answered,  still 
with  her  girlish  scorn  perceptible  in  her  voice. 

But  Dexter  paid  no  attention  to  her  sarcasm.  "  I  will 
tell  you  the  whole  when  you  are  my  wife,"  he  said. 
"Let  it  suffice  now  that  at  the  hour  named  I  became 
aware  of  the  worthlessness  and  faithlessness  of  women ; 
and — I  speak  God's  truth,  Anne — even  at  that  bitter  mo 
ment  I  fell  back  upon  the  thought  of  you  as  a  safeguard 
— a  safeguard  against  total  disbelief  in  the  possibility  of 
woman's  fidelity.  I  knew  then  that  I  had  revered  you 


280       m  ANNE. 

with  my  better  self  all  the  while — that,  young-  as  you  are, 
I  had  believed  in  you.  I  believe  in  you  now.  Be  my 
wife ;  and  from  this  instant  I  will  devote  all  the  love  in 
me — and  I  have  more  than  you  think — to  you  alone." 
He  had  crossed  the  room,  and  was  standing  beside 
her. 

Anne  felt  at  once  the  touch  of  real  feeling-.  "I  am 
very  sorry,  "she  said,  gently,  looking  up  into  his  face.  "I 
should  have  said  it  at  first,  but  that  I  did  not  think  you 
were  in  earnest  until  now.  I  am  engaged,  Mr.  Dexter;  I 
was  engaged  before  I  came  here." 

"  But,"  said  Dexter,  "  Miss  Vanhorn — " 

"Yes,  I  know.  Grandaunt  does  not  approve  of  it, 
and  will  not  countenance  it.  But  that,  of  course,  makes 
no  difference." 

He  looked  at  her,  puzzled  by  her  manner.  In  truth, 
poor  Anne,  while  immovably  determined  to  keep  her 
promise  to  Hast,  even  cherishing-  the  purpose,  also,  of 
hastening  the  marriag-e  if  he  wished  it,  was  yet  so  ineffi 
cient  an  actress  that  she  trembled  as  she  spoke,  and  re 
turned  his  g-aze  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"You  ivish  to  marry  this  man,  I  suppose — I  am  ignor 
ant  of  his  name  ?"  he  asked,  watching  her  with  atten 
tion. 

' '  His  name  is  Erastus  Pronando  ;  we  were  children 
together  on  the  island,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice, 
with  downcast  eyes. 

"And  you  wish  to  marry  him  ?" 

"I  do." 

Gregory  Dexter  put  another  disappointment  down 
upon  the  tablets  of  his  memory — a  disappointment  and  a 
surprise ;  he  had  not  once  doubted  his  success. 

In  this  certainty  he  had  been  deceived  partly  by  Miss 
Vanhorn,  and  partly  by  Anne  herself;  by  her  unstudied 
frankness.  He  knew  that  she  liked  him,  but  he  had 
mistaken  the  nature  of  her  regard.  He  could  always 
control  himself,  however,  and  he  now  turned  to  her  kind 
ly.  He  thought  she  was  afraid  of  her  aunt.  "Sit  down 
for  a  few  minutes  more,"  he  said,  "and  tell  me  about 
it.  Why  does  Miss  Vanhorn  disapprove  ?" 


ANNE.  281 

"I  do  not  know, "  replied  Anne ;  "or,  rather,  I  do  know, 
but  can  not  tell  you.  Never  mind  about  me,  Mr.  Dexter. 
I  am  unhappy ;  but  no  one  can  help  me.  I  must  help  my 
self." 

"Mr.  Pronando  should  esteem  it  his  dearest  privilege 
to  do  so,"  said  Dexter,  who  felt  himself  growing-  old  and 
cynical  under  this  revelation  of  fresh  young  love. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Anne,  then  stopped.  "If  you  will 
leave  me  now, "she  said,  after  a  moment,  "it  would  be 
very  kind." 

' '  I  will  go,  of  course,  if  you  desire  it ;  but  first  let  me 
say  one  word.  Your  aunt  objects  to  this  engagement,  and 
you  have  neither  father  nor  mother  to  take  your  part. 
I  have  a  true  regard  for  you,  which  is  not  altered  by  the 
personal  disappointment  I  am  at  present  feeling;  it  is 
founded  upon  a  belief  in  you  which  can  not  change. 
Can  I  not  help  you,  then,  as  a  friend  ?  For  instance, 
could  I  not  help  Mr.  Pronando — merely  as  a  friend  ?  I 
know  what  it  is  to  have  to  make  one's  own  way  in  the 
world  unaided.  I  feel  for  such  boys— I  mean  young  men. 
What  does  he  intend  to  do  ?  Give  me  his  address." 

"No,"  said  Anne,  touched  by  this  prompt  kindness. 
"But  I  feel  your  generosity,  Mr.  Dexter;  I  shall  never 
forget  it."  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  brushed 
them  away.  "Will  you  leave  me  now?"  she  said. 

' '  Would  it  not  be  better  if  we  returned  together  ?  I 
mean,  would  not  Miss  Vanhorn  notice  it  less  ?  You 
could  excuse  yourself  soon  afterward." 

' k  You  are  right.  I  will  go  down  with  you.  But  first, 
do  I  not  show — "  she  went  toward  the  mirror. 

"Show  what  ?"  said  Dexter,  following  her,  and  stand 
ing  by  her  side.  "That  you  are  one  of  the  loveliest 
young  girls  in  the  world— as  you  look  to-night,  the  love 
liest  ?"  He  smiled  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  as  he 
spoke,  and  then  turned  toward  the  reality.  "You  show 
nothing,"  he  said,  kindly;  "and  my  eyes  are  very  ob 
servant." 

They  went  toward  the  door  ;  as  they  reached  it,  he 
bent  over  her.  "If  this  engagement  should  by  any 
chance  be  broken,  then  could  you  not  love  me  a  little, 


282  ANNE. 

Anne — only  a  little  ?"  he  murmured,  looking  into  her 
eyes  questioningly. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  answered,  gravely.  "You  are 
a  generous  man.  I  would  like  to  love  you." 

"  But  you  could  not  ?" 

"I  can  not." 

He  pressed  her  hand  in  silence,  opened  the  door,  and 
led  the  way  down  to  the  ball-room.  They  had  been  ab 
sent  one  hour. 

Blum,  who  was  standing  disconsolately  near  the  en 
trance,  watching  Helen,  came  up  and  asked  Anne  to 
dance.  Eeluctaiit  to  go  to  her  grandaunt  before  it  was 
necessary,  she  consented.  She  glanced  nervously  up  and 
down  the  long  room  as  they  took  their  places,  but  Heath- 
cote  was  not  present.  Her  gaze  then  rested  upon  anoth 
er  figure  moving  through  the  dance  at  some  distance  down 
the  hall.  Mrs.  Lorrington  in  her  costume  that  evening 
challenged  criticism.  She  did  this  occasionally — it  was 
one  of  her  amusements.  Her  dress  was  of  almost  the 
same  shade  of  color  as  her  hair,  the  hue  unbroken  from 
head  to  foot,  the  few  ornaments  being  little  stars  of 
topaz.  Her  shoulders  and  arms  wTere  uncovered;  and 
here  also  she  challenged  criticism,  since  she  was  so 
slight  that  in  profile  view  she  looked  like  a  swaying 
reed.  But  as  there  was  not  an  angle  visible  anywhere, 
her  fair  slenderness  seemed  a  new  kind  of  beauty,  which 
all,  in  spite  of  sculptor's  rules,  must  now  admire.  Ra 
chel  called  her,  smilingly,  "  the  amber  witch."  But  Is 
abel  said,  "No  ;  witch-hazel;  because  it  is  so  beautiful, 
and  yellow,  and  sweet."  Rachel,  Isabel,  and  Helen  al 
ways  said  charming  things  about  each  other  in  public : 
they  had  done  this  unflinchingly  for  years. 

Miss  Vanhorn  was  watching  her  niece  from  her  com 
fortable  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  watching 
with  some  impatience.  But  the  Haunted  Man  was  now 
asking  Anne  to  dance,  and  Anne  was  accepting.  After 
that  dance  she  went  out  on  the  piazza  for  a  few  moments ; 
when  she  returned,  Heathcote  was  in  the  room,  and 
waltzing  with  Helen. 

All  her  courage  left  her  before  she  could  grasp  it,  and 


ANNE,  383 

hardly  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  she  went  directly 
across  the  floor  to  Miss  Vanhorn,  and  asked  if  she  might 
go  to  her  room. 

Miss  Vanhorn  formed  one  of  a  majestic  phalanx  of  old 
ladies.  "Are  you  tired  ?"  she  asked. 

"Very  tired,"  said  Anne,  not  raising  her  eyes  higher 
than  the  stout  waist  be  fore  her,  clad  in  shining  black  satin. 

"She  does  look  pale,"  remarked  old  Mrs.  Bannert,  sym- 
pathizingly. 

"  Anne  is  always  sleepy  at  eight  or  nine,  like  a  baby," 
replied  Miss  Vanhorn,  well  aware  that  the  dark -eyed 
Rachel  was  decidedly  a  night-bird,  and  seldom  appeared 
at  breakfast  at  all ;  "  and  she  has  also  a  barbarous  way 
of  getting  up  at  dawn.  Go  to  bed,  child,  if  you  wish ; 
your  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  will  be  ready  in  the  morn 
ing."  Then,  as  Anne  turned,  she  added:  "You  will  be 
asleep  when  I  come  up ;  I  will  not  disturb  you.  Take  a 
good  rest."  Which  Anne  interpreted,  "I  give  you  that 
amount  of  time:  think  well  before  you  act."  The  last 
respite  was  accorded. 

But  even  a  minute  is  precious  to  the  man  doomed  to 
death.  Anne  left  the  ball-room  almost  with  a  light 
heart:  she  had  the  night.  She  shut  herself  in  her  room, 
took  off  the  lace  dress,  loosened  her  hair,  and  sat  down 
by  the  window  to  think.  The  late  moon  was  rising  ; 
a  white  fog  filled  the  valley  and  lay  thickly  over  the  riv 
er  ;  but  she  left  the  sash  open — the  cool  damp  air  seemed 
to  soothe  her  troubled  thoughts.  For  she  knew — and  de 
spised  herself  in  the  knowledge — that  the  strongest  feel 
ing  in  her  heart  now  was  jealousy,  jealousy  of  Helen 
dancing  with  Heathcote  below.  Time  passed  unheeded  •, 
she  had  not  stirred  hand  or  foot  when,  two  hours  later, 
there  was  a  tap  on  her  door.  It  was  Helen. 

"Do  not  speak, "she  whispered,  entering  swiftly  and 
softly,  and  closing  the  door;  "the  Grand  Llama  is  com 
ing  up  the  stairs.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  I  knew  that 
if  I  did  not  slip  in.  before  she  passed,  I  could  not  get  in 
without  disturbing  her.  Do  not  stir;  she  will  stop  at 
your  door  and  listen." 

They  stood  motionless ;  Miss  Vanhorii's  step  came  along 


284  ANNE. 

the  hall,  and,  as  Helen  had  predicted,  paused  at  Anne's 
door.  There  was  no  light  within,  and  no  sound ;  after  a 
moment  it  passed  on,  entered  the  parlor,  and  then  the 
hedroom  beyond. 

"If  Bessmer  would  only  close  the  bedroom  door," 
whispered  Helen,  ' '  we  should  be  quite  safe. "  At  this  mo 
ment  the  maid  did  close  the  door;  Helen  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief.  ' '  I  never  could  whisper  well, "  she  said.  ' '  Only 
cat-women  whisper  nicely.  Isabel  is  a  cat-woman.  Now 
when  it  comes  to  a  murmur — a  faint,  clear,  sweet  murmur, 
I  am  an  adept.  I  wonder  if  Isabsl  will  subdue  her  wid 
ower  ?  You  have  been  here  long  enough  to  have  an 
opinion.  Will  she  ?" 

"I  do  not  know, "said  Anne,  wondering  at  her  own 
ability  to  speak  the  words. 

' '  And  I — do  not  care !  I  am  tired,  Crystal :  may  I  lie 
on  your  bed  ?  Do  close  that  deathly  window,  and  come 
over  here,  so  that  we  can  talk  comfortably,"  said  Helen, 
throwing  herself  down  on  the  white  coverlet — a  long 
slender  shape,  with  its  white  arms  clasped  under  its  head. 
The  small  room  was  in  shadow.  Anne  drew  a  chair  to 
the  bedside  and  sat  down,  with  her  back  to  the  moonlight. 

"This  is  a  miserable  world,"  began  Mrs.  Lorrington. 
Her  companion,  sitting  with  folded  arms  and  downcast 
eyes,  mentally  agreed  with  her. 

"Of  course  you  do  not  think  so,"  continued  Helen, 
"and  perhaps,  being  such  a  crystal-innocent,  you  will 
never  find  it  out.  There  are  such  souls.  There  are  also 
others ;  and  it  is  quite  decided  that  I  hate — Rachel  Ban- 
nert,  who  is  one  of  them." 

Anne  had  moved  nervously,  but  at  that  name  she  fell 
back  into  stillness  again. 

' '  Rachel  is  the  kind  of  woman  I  dread  more  than  any 
other,"  continued  Helen.  "Her  strength  is  feeling. 
Feeling!  I  tell  you,  Crystal,  that  you  and  I  are  capable 
of  loving,  and  suffering  for  the  one  we  love,  through  long 
years  of  pain,  where  Rachel  would  not  wet  the  sole  of  her 
slipper.  Yet  men  believe  in  her !  The  truth  is,  men  are 
fools:  one  sigh  deceives  them." 

"Then  sigh," said  the  figure  in  the  chair. 


"ANNE  DREW  A  CHAIR  TO  THE  BEDSIDE  AND  SAT  DOWN,  AVITH  HKR 
BACK  TO  THE  MOONLIGHT." 


ANNE.  285 

"  No;  that  is  not  my  talent:  I  must  continue  to  be  my 
self.  But  /  saw  her  on  the  piazza  with  Ward  to-night ; 
and  I  detest  her." 

"  With— Mr.  Heathcote  ?" 

' '  Yes.  Of  course  nothing  would  be  so  much  to  her 
disadvantage  as  to  marry  Ward,  and  she  knows  it;  he 
has  no  fortune,  and  she  has  none.  But  she  loves  to  make 
me  wretched.  I  made  the  greatest  mistake  of  my  life 
when  I  let  her  see  once,  more  than  a  year  ago,  how  things 
were." 

"How  things  were?"  repeated  Anne— that  common 
place  phrase  which  carries  deep  meanings  safely  because 
unexpressed. 

"Of  course  there  is  no  necessity  to  tell  you,  Crystal, 
what  you  must  already  know — that  Ward  and  I  are  in  a 
certain  way  betrothed.  It  is  an  old  affair:  we  have 
known  each  other  always." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  voice,  affirmatively  and  steadily. 

"Some  day  we  shall  be  married,  I  suppose:  we  like 
each  other.  But  there  is  no  haste  at  present :  I  think 
we  both  like  to  be  free.  Heigh-ho  !  Do  you  admire 
this  dress,  Crystal  ?" 

"  It  is  very  beautiful." 

"And  yet  he  only  came  in  and  danced  with  me  once!" 

"Perhaps  he  does  not  care  for  dancing,"  said  Anne. 
She  was  accomplishing  each  one  of  her  sentences  slowly 
and  carefully,  like  answers  in  a  lesson. 

' '  Yes,  he  does.  Do  not  be  deceived  by  his  indolent 
manner,  Crystal;  he  is  full  of  all  sorts  of  unexpected 
strong  likings  and  feelings,  in  spite  of  his  lazy  look.  Do 
you  think  I  should  be  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  a  stick  ?" 

Anne  made  no  reply. 

"Do  you  ?"  said  Helen,  insistently,  stretching  out  her 
arms,  and  adjusting  the  chains  of  topaz  stars  that  decked 
their  slenderness. 

Anne  leaned  forward  and  drew  down  her  friend's  hands, 
holding  them  closely  in  her  own.  "Helen,"  she  said, 
"  tell  me:  do  you  love  Mr.  Heathcote  ?" 

"  What  is  love  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lorrington,  lightly. 

"Tell  me,  Helen." 


286  ANNE. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  know  ?" 

"  I  do  wish  to  know." 

"Ward  Heathcote  is  not  worth  my  love." 

"Is  he  worth  Rachel  Bannert's,  then?"  said  Anne, 
touching  the  spring  by  which  she  had  seen  the  other 
stirred. 

"Rachel  Bannert!"  repeated  Helen,  with  a  tone  of 
bitter  scorn.  Then  she  paused.  ' '  Anne,  you  are  a  true- 
hearted  child,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  love  Ward  Heath- 
cote  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul." 

She  spoke  in  clear  tones,  and  did  not  turn  away  or  hide 
her  face;  she  lay  looking  up  at  the  moonlight  on  the 
rough  white  wall.  It  was  Anne  who  turned,  shivering, 
and  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"I  love  him  so  much,"  Helen  continued,  "that  if  he 
should  leave  me,  I  believe  I  should  die.  Not  suddenly, 
or  with  any  sensation,  of  course.  I  only  mean  that  I 
should  not  be  able  to  live." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Then  the  clear  soft  voice 
went  011. 

"I  have  always  loved  him.  Ever  since  I  can  remem 
ber.  Do  not  be  shocked,  but  I  loved  him  even  when  I 
married  Richard.  I  was  very  young,  and  did  it  in  a 
sort  of  desperate  revenge  because  he  did  not,  would  not, 
care  for  me.  I  was  not  punished  for  my  madness,  for 
Richard  loved  me  dearly,  and  died  so  soon,  poor  fellow, 
that  he  never  discovered  the  truth.  And  then  it  all  be 
gan  over  again.  Only  this  time  Ward  was — different." 

Another  silence  followed.    Anne  did  not  move  or  speak. 

"  Do  not  be  unhappy  about  me,  child,"  said  Helen  at 
last,  turning  on  her  arm  to  look  at  her  companion;  "all 
will  come  right  in  time.  It  was  only  that  I  was  vexed 
about  this  evening.  For  he  has  not  seemed  quite  himself 
lately,  and  of  course  I  attribute  it  to  Rachel :  her  deadly 
sweetness  is  like  that  of  nightshade  and  tube-roses  com 
bined.  Now  tell  me  about  yourself:  how  comes  on  the 
quarrel  with  the  Llama  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know." 

' '  I  saw  you  stealing  away  in  your  white  lace  with 
Gregory  Dexter  this  evening, "  pursued  Helen.  ' '  He  was 


ANNE.  287 

as  agreeable  as  ever  this  morning.  However,  there  it  is 
again ;  just  before  six,  Nightshade  strolled  off  toward  the 
ravine  '  to  see  the  sunset'  (one  sees  the  sunset  so  well  from 
there,  you  know,  facing  the  east),  and  Dexter  seemed  also 
to  have  forgotten  the  points  of  the  compass,  for — he  fol 
lowed  her." 

"Then  it  was  Mrs.  Bannert, " said  Anne,  half  uncon 
sciously. 

"It  is  always- Mrs.  Bannert.  I  do  not  in  the  least 
know  what  you  mean,  but — it  is  always  Mrs.  Baimert. 
What  did  he  say  about  her  ?" 

"Of  course  I  can  not  tell  you,  Helen.  But — I  really 
thought  it  was  you." 

' '  What  should  I  have  to  do  with  it  ?  How  you  play 
at  cross-purposes,  Crystal !  Is  it  possible  that  during  all 
this  time  you  have  not  discovered  how  infatuated  our 
Gregory  is  with  Rachel  ?  Ward  is  only  amusing  him 
self  ;  but  Gregory  is,  in  one  sense,  carried  away.  How 
ever,  I  doubt  if  it  lasts,  and  I  really  think  he  has  a  warm 
regard  for  you,  a  serious  one.  It  is  a  pity  you  could 
not- 

Anne  stopped  the  sentence  with  a  gesture. 

"Yes,  I  see  that  little  ring,"  said  Helen.  "But  the 
world  is  a  puzzle,  and  we  often  follow  several  paths  be 
fore  we  find  the  right  one.  How  cold  your  hands  are! 
The  nights  are  110  longer  like  summer,  and  the  moon  is 
Medusa.  The  autumn  moon  is  a  cruel  moon  always,  re 
minding  us  of  the  broken  hopes  and  promises  of  the  lost 
summer.  I  must  go,  Crystal.  You  are  pale  and  weary ; 
the  summer  with  the  Llama  has  been  too  hard.  I  believe 
you  will  be  glad  to  be  safely  back  at  Moreau's  again.  But 
I  can  not  come  over  now  and  tell  you  romances,  can  I  ? 
You  know  the  personages,  and  the  charm  will  be  gone. 
To-morrow  I  am  going  to  ride.  You  have  not  seen  me  in 
my  habit  ?  I  assure  you  even  a  mermaid  can  not  com 
pare  with  me.  Do  you  know,  I  should  be  happy  for  life 
if  I  could  but  induce  Rachel  to  show  herself  once  on  horse 
back  by  :ny  side :  on  horseback  Rachel  looks — excuse  the 
word,  but  it  expresses  it — sploshy.  The  trouble  is  that 
she  knows  it,  and  will  not  go;  she  prefers  moonlight,  a 


288  ANNE. 

piazza,  and  sylphide  roses  in  her  hair,  with  the  back 
ground  of  fluffy  white  shawl." 

Then,  with  a  little  more  light  nonsense,  Helen  went 
away — went  at  last.  Anne  bolted  the  door,  threw  her 
self  down  upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  with  her  arms 
stretched  out  and  her  face  hidden.  There  had  been  but 
this  wanting  to  her  misery,  and  now  it  was  added :  Helen 
loved  him. 

For  she  was  not  deceived  by  the  flippant  phrases  which 
had  surrounded  tne  avowal :  Helen  would  talk  flippantly 
on  her  death-bed.  None  the  less  was  she  in  earnest  when 
she  spoke  those  few  words.  In  such  matters  a  woman 
can  read  a  woman :  there  is  a  tone  of  voice  which  can 
not  be  counterfeited.  It  tells  all. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  What  is  this  that  them  hast  been  fretting  and  fuming  and  lament 
ing  and  self-tormenting  on  account  of  ?  Say  it  in  a  word :  is  it  not  be 
cause  thou  art  not  happy  ?  Foolish  soul !  what  act  of  Legislature  was 
there  that  thou  shouldst  be  happy  ?  There  is  in  Man  a  higher  than  Hap 
piness  ;  he  can  do  without  Happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find  Blessed 
ness.  This  is  the  everlasting  Yea,  wherein  all  contradiction  is  solved." 
— CARLYLE. 

AFTER  an  hour  of  mute  suffering,  Anne  sought  the 
blessed  oblivion  of  sleep.  She  had  conquered  herself; 
she  was  exhausted.  She  would  try  to  gain  strength  for 
the  effort  of  the  coming  day.  But  nothing  avails  against 
that  fever,  strong  as  life  and  sad  as  death,  which  we  call 
Love,  and  which,  in  spite  of  the  crowd  of  shallower  feel 
ings  that  masquerade  under  and  mock  its  name,  still  re 
mains  the  master-power  of  our  human  existence.  Anne 
had  no  sooner  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow  than  there 
rose  within  her,  and  ten  times  stronger  than  before,  her 
love  and  her  jealousy.  She  would  stay  and  contest  the 
matter  with  Helen.  Had  he  not  said,  had  he  not  look 
ed —  And  then  she  caught  herself  back  in  an  agony  of 
self-reproach.  For  it  is  always  hard  for  the  young  to 
learn  the  lesson  of  human  weakness.  It  is  strange  and 


ANNE.  289 

humiliating  to  them  to  discover  that  there  are  powers 
within  them  stronger  than  their  own  wills.  The  old 
know  this  so  well  that  they  excuse  each  other  silently; 
but,  loath  to  shake  the  ignorant  faith  of  innocence,  they 
leave  the  young  to  find  it  out  for  themselves.  The  whole 
night  with  Anne  was  but  a  repetition  of  efforts  and  lapses, 
followed  toward  morning,  however,  by  a  struggling  re 
turn  to  self-control.  For  years  of  faithfulness  even  as  a 
child  are  not  thrown  away,  but  yield,  thank  Heaven!  a 
strength  at  last  in  times  of  trial;  else  might  we  all  go 
drown  ourselves.  At  dawn,  with  tear-stained  cheeks, 
she  fell  asleep,  waking  with  a  start  when  Bessmer 
knocked  and  inquired  if  she  was  ill.  Miss  Vanhorn  had 
gone  down  to  breakfast. 

"Please  send  me  some  coffee,"  said  Anne,  without 
opening  the  door.  "I  do  not  care  for  anything  else. 
I  will  be  ready  soon." 

She  dressed  herself  slowly,  swallowing  the  coffee.  But 
youth  is  strong ;  the  cold  bath  and  the  fresh  white  morn 
ing  dress  made  her  look  as  fair  as  ever.  Miss  Vanhorn 
was  waiting  for  her  in  the  little  parlor.  Bessmer  was 
sent  away.,  and  the  door  closed.  The  girl  remained  stand 
ing,  and  took  hold  of  the  back  of  a  chair  to  nerve  her 
self  for  the  first  step  along  the  hard,  lonely  road  stretch 
ing  out  before  her  like  a  desert. 

"  Anne,"  began  Miss  Vanhorn,  in  a  magisterial  voice, 
"  what  did  Mr.  Dexter  say  to  you  last  evening  ?" 

"He  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

*'I  hardly  expected  it  so  soon,  although  I  knew  it 
would  come  in  time,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  swallow 
of  satisfaction.  "Sit  down.  And  don't  be  an  idiot. 
You  will  now  listen  to  me.  Mr.  Dexter  is  a  rich  man ; 
he  is  what  is  called  a  rising  man  (if  any  one  wants  to 
rise);  he  is  a  good  enough  man  also,  as  men  go.  He 
has  no  claim  as  regards  family ;  neither  have  you.  He 
is  a  thorough  and  undiluted  American;  so  are  you.  He 
will  be  a  kind  husband,  and  one  far  higher  in  the  world 
than  you  had  any  right  to  expect.  On  the  other  hand, 
you  -will  do  very  well  as  his  wife,  for  you  have  fair  abil 
ity  and  a  pretty  face  (it  is  of  course  your  pink  and  white 

19 


290  ANNE. 

beauty  that  has  won  him),  and  principles  enough  for 
both.  Like  all  people  who  have  made  money  rapid- 
ly,  he  is  lavish,  and  will  deny  you  nothing ;  he  will 
even  allow  you,  I  presume,  to  help  one  and  all  of  that 
colony  of  children,  priests,  old  maids,  and  dogs,  up  on 
that  island.  See  what  power  will  be  put  into  your  hands ! 
You  might  labor  all  your  life,  and  not  accomplish  one- 
hundredth  part  of  that  which,  as  Gregory  Dexter's  wife, 
you  could  do  in  one  day. 

"  As  to  your  probable  objection — the  boy-and-girl  en 
gagement  in  which  you  were  foolish  enough  to  entangle 
yourself — I  will  simply  say,  leave  it  to  time ;  it  will  break 
itself.  How  do  you  know  that  it  is  not,  in  fact,  broken 
already  ?  The  Pronando  blood  is  faithless  in  its  very 
essence,"  added  the  old  woman,  bitterly.  "Mr.  Dexter 
is  a  man  of  the  world.  I  will  explain  it  to  him  myself ; 
he  will  understand,  and  will  not  urge  you  at  present. 
He  will  wait,  as  I  shall,  for  the  natural  solution  of  time. 
But  in  the  mean  while  you  must  not  off  end  him ;  he  is 
not  at  all  a  man  whom  a  woman  can  offend  with  im 
punity.  He  is  vain,  and  has  a  singularly  mistaken  idea 
of  his  own  importance.  Agree  to  what  I  propose — 
which  is  simple  quiescence  for  the  present — and  you 
shall  go  back  to  Moreau's,  and  the  allowance  for  the 
children  shall  be  continued.  I  have  never  before  in 
my  life  made  so  many  concessions;  it  is  because  you 
have  had  at  times  lately  a  look  that  brings  back — 
Alida," 

Anne's  lips  trembled;  a  sudden  weakness  came  over 
her  at  this  allusion  to  her  mother. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  expectantly. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  a  girl's  voice  answered :  "  I 
can  not,  grandaunt.  I  must  go. " 

"You  may  go,  I  tell  you,  back  to  Moreau's  on  the  1st 
of  October." 

"  I  mean  that  I  can  not  marry  Mr.  Dexter." 

"  No  one  asks  you  to  marry  him  now." 

"  I  can  never  marry  him." 

' '  Why  ?"  said  Miss  Vanhorn,  with  rising  color.  "  Be 
careful  what  you  say.  No  lies." 


ANNE.  291 

"  I— I  am  engaged  to  East." 

"Lie  number  one.  Look  at  me.  If  your  engage 
ment  was  ended,  then  would  you  marry  Mr.  Dexter  ?" 

Anne  half  rose,  as  if  to  escape,  but  sank  back  again. 
"I  could  not  marry  him,  because  I  do  not  love  him," 
she  answered. 

"And  whom  do  you  love,  that  you  know  so  much 
about  it,  and  have  your  '  do  not'  and  '  can  not'  so  prompt 
ly  ready  ?  Never  tell  me  that  it  is  that  boy  upon  the  isl 
and  who  has  taught  you  all  these  new  ways,  this  falter 
ing  and  fear  of  looking  in  my  face,  of  which  you  knew 
nothing  when  you  came.  Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  you  ?" 

"No, "cried  the  girl,  rushing  forward,  and  falling  on 
her  knees  beside  the  arm-chair ;  ' '  tell  me  nothing.  Only 
let  me  go  away.  I  can  not,  can  not  stay  here ;  I  am  too 
wretched,  too  weak.  You  can  not  have  a  lower  opinion 
of  me  than  I  have  of  myself  at  this  moment.  If, you 
have  any  compassion  for  me — for  the  memory  of  my  mo 
ther—say  no  more,  and  let  me  go."  She  bowed  her  head 
upon  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  sobbed  aloud. 

But  Miss  Vanhorn  rose  and  walked  away.  "  I  know 
what  this  means,"  she  said,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the 
room.  "  Like  mother,  like  daughter.  Only  Alida  ran 
after  a  man  who  loved  her,  although  her  inferior,  while 
you  have  thrown  yourself  at  the  feet  of  a  man  who  is 
simply  laughing  at  you.  Don't  you  know,  you  fool,  that 
Ward  Heathcote  will  marry  Helen  Lorrington — the  wo 
man  you  pretend  to  be  grateful  to,  and  call  your  dearest 
friend  ?  Helen  Lorrington  will  be  in  every  way  a  suit 
able  wife  for  him.  It  has  long  been  generally  under 
stood.  The  idea  of  your  trying  to  thrust  yourself  be 
tween  them  is  preposterous  —  I  may  say  a  maniac's 
folly." 

"I  am  not  trying:  only  let  me  go,"  sobbed  Anne,  still 
kneeling  by  the  chair. 

"You  think  I  have  not  seen,"  continued  Miss  Van- 
horn,  her  wrath  rising  with  every  bitter  word ;  ' '  but  I 
have.  Only  I  never  dreamed  that  it  was  as  bad  as  this. 
I  never  dreamed  that  Alida's  daughter  could  be  bold  and 


292  ANNE. 

immodest — worse  than  her  mother,  who  was  only  love- 
mad." 

Anne  started  to  her  feet.  "Miss  Vanhorn,"  she  said, 
' '  I  will  not  hear  this,  either  of  myself  or  my  mother. 
It  is  not  true." 

"As  to  not  hearing  it,  you  are  right;  you  will  not 
hear  my  voice  often  in  the  future.  I  wash  my  hands  of 
you.  You  are  an  ungrateful  girl,  and  will  come  to  an 
evil  end.  When  I  think  of  the  enormous  selfishness  you 
now  show  in  thus  throwing  away,  for  a  mere  matter 
of  personal  obstinacy,  the  bread  of  your  sister  and  bro 
thers,  and  leaving  them  to  starve,  I  stand  appalled. 
What  do  you  expect  ?" 

"  Nothing — save  to  go." 

"And  you  shall  go." 

"To-day?" 

"This  afternoon,  at  three."  As  she  said  this,  Miss 
Vanhorn  seated  herself  with  her  back  toward  Anne,  and 
took  up  a  book,  as  though  there  was  no  one  in  the  room. 

"Do  you  want  me  any  longer,  grandaunt ?" 

"Never  call  me  by  that  name  again.  Go  to  your 
room ;  Bessmer  will  attend  to  you.  At  two  o'clock  I  will 
o'ee  you  for  a  moment  before  you  go." 

Without  a  reply,  Anne  obeyed.  Her  tears  were  dried 
as  if  by  fever ;  words  had  been  spoken  which  could  not  be 
forgiven.  Inaction  was  impossible ;  she  began  to  pack. 
Then,  remembering  who  had  given  her  all  these  clothes, 
she  paused,  uncertain  what  to  do.  After  reflection,  she 
decided  to  take  with  her  only  those  she  had  brought 
from  the  half-house ;  and  in  this  she  was  not  actuated  by 
any  spirit  of  retaliation,  her  idea  was  that  her  grandaunt 
would  demand  the  gifts  in  any  case.  Miss  Vanhorn  was 
not  generous.  She  worked  steadily ;  she  did  not  wish  to 
think ;  yet  still  the  crowding  feelings  pursued  her,  caught 
up  with  her,  and  then  went  along  with  her,  thrusting 
their  faces  close  to  hers,  and  forcing  recognition.  Was 
she,  as  Miss  Vanhorn  had  said,  enormously  selfish  in  thus 
sacrificing  the  new  comfort  of  the  pinched  household  on 
the  island  to  her  own  obstinacy  ?  But,  as  she  folded  the 
plain  garments  brought  from  that  home,  she  knew  that  it 


ANNE.  293 

was  not  selfishness ;  as  she  replaced  the  filmy  ball  dress 
in  its  box,  she  said  to  herself  that  she  could  not  deceive 
Mr.  Dexter  by  so  much  even  as  a  silence.  Then,  as  she 
wrapped  the  white  parasol  in  its  coverings,  the  old  burn 
ing-,  throbbing  misery  rolled  over  her,  followed  by  the 
hot  jealousy  which  she  thought  she  had  conquered ;  she 
seized  the  two  dresses  given  by  Helen,  and  added  them  to 
those  left  behind.  But  the  action  brought  shame,  and  she 
replaced  them.  And  now  all  the  clothes  faced  her  from 
the  open  trunks ;  those  from  the  island,  those  which  East 
had  seen,  murmured,  "Faithless!''  Helen's  gifts  whisper 
ed,  "Ingratitude!"  and  those  of  her  grandaunt  called 
more  loudly,  "Fool!"  She  closed  the  lids,  and  turned 
toward  the  window;  she  tried  to  busy  her  mind  with 
the  future:  surely  thought  and  plans  were  needed.  She 
was  no  longer  confident,  as  she  had  been  when  she  first 
left  her  Northern  island ;  she  knew  now  how  wide  the 
world  was,  and  how  cold.  She  could  not  apply  at  the 
doors  of  schools  without  letters  or  recommendations; 
she  could  not  live  alone.  Her  one  hope  began  and  end 
ed  in  Jeaniie-Armande.  She  dressed  herself  in  trave1 
ling  garb  and  sat  down  to  wait.  It  was  nearly  noon, 
probably  she  would  not  see  Helen,  as  she  always  slept 
through  the  morning  after  a  ball,  preserving  by  this 
changeless  care  the  smooth  fairness  of  her  delicate  com 
plexion.  She  decided  to  write  a  note  of  farewell,  and 
leave  it  with  Bessmer;  but  again  and  again  she  tore  up 
her  beginnings,  until  the  floor  was  strewn  with  frag 
ments.  She  had  so  very  much  not  to  say.  At  last 
she  succeeded  in  putting  together  a  few  sentences,  which 
told  nothing,  save  that  she  was  going  away;  she  bade 
her  good -by,  and  thanked  her  for  all  her  kindness, 
signing,  without  any  preliminary  phrases  (for  was  she 
"affectionately"  or  "sincerely"  Helen's  "friend"  ?),  mere 
ly  her  name,  Anne  Douglas. 

At  one  o'clock  Bessmer  entered  with  luncheon.  Evi 
dently  she  had  received  orders  to  enter  into  no  conversa 
tion  with  the  prisoner ;  but  she  took  the  note,  and  prom 
ised  to  deliver  it  with  her  own  hands.  At  two  the  door 
opened,  and  Miss  Varihorn  came  in. 


294  ANNE. 

The  old  woman's  eye  took  in  at  a  glance  the  closed 
trunks  and  the  travelling  dress.  She  had  meant  to  try 
her  niece,  to  punish  her ;  but  even  then  she  could  not  be 
lieve  that  the  girl  would  really  throw  away  forever  all 
the  advantages  she  had  placed  within  her  grasp.  She  sat 
down,  and  after  waiting  a  moment,  closed  her  eyes. 
"Anne  Douglas,"  she  began,  "daughter  of  my  misguid 
ed  niece  Alida  Clanssen,  I  have  come  for  a  final  decision. 
Answer  my  questions.  First,  have  you,  or  have  you  not, 
one  hundred  dollars  in  the  world  ?" 

"I  have  not." 

"Have  you,  or  have  you  not,  three  brothers  and  one 
sister  wholly  dependent  upon  you  ?" 

"I  have." 

"Is  it  just  or  honorable  to  leave  them  longer  to  the 
charity  of  a  woman  who  is  poor  herself,  and  not  even  a 
relative?" 

"It  is  neither." 

"Have  I,  or  have  I  not,  assisted  you,  offered  also  to 
continue  the  pension  which  makes  them  comfortable  ?" 

"You  have." 

"Then,"  said  the  old  woman,  still  with  her  eyes  closed, 
* '  why  persist  in  this  idiotic  stubbornness  ?  In  offending 
me,  are  you  not  aware  that  you  are  offending  the  only 
person  on  earth  who  can  assist  you  ?  I  make  no  prom 
ises,  as  to  the  future;  but  I  am  an  old  woman  now,  one 
to  whom  you  could  at  least  be  dutiful.  There — I  want 
110  fine  words.  Show  your  fineness  by  obeying  my 
wishes." 

"I  will  stay  with  you,  grandaunt,  willingly,  gladly, 
gratefully,  if  you  will  take  me  away  from  this  place." 

"No  conditions,"  said  Miss  Vanhorn.  "Come  here; 
kneel  down  in  front  of  me,  so  that  I  can  look  at  you. 
Will  you  stay  with  me  here,  if  I  yield  everything  con- 
cerning  Mr.  Dexter  ?"  She  held  her  firmly,  with  her 
small  keen  eyes  searching  her  face. 

Anne  was  silent.  Like  the  panorama  which  is  said 
to  pass  before  the  eyes  of  the  drowning  man,  the  days 
and  hours  at  Caryl's  as  they  would  be,  must  be,  unroll 
ed  themselves  before  her.  But  there  only  followed  the 


ANNE.  295 

same  desperate  realization  of  the  impossibility  of  remain 
ing;  the  misery,  the  jealousy;  worse  than  all,  the  self- 
doubt.  The  misery,  the  jealousy,  she  could  perhaps  bear, 
deep  as  they  were.  But  what  appalled  her  was  this  new 
doubt  of  herself,  this  new  knowledge,  that,  in  spite  of  all 
her  determination,  she  might,  if  tried,  yield  to  this  love 
which  had  taken  possession  of  her  unawares,  yield  to  cer. 
tain  words  which  he  might  speak,  to  certain  tones  of  his 
voice,  and  thus  become  even  more  faithless  to  East,  to 
Helen,  and  to  herself,  than  she  already  was.  If  he  would 
go  away— but  she  knew  that  he  would  not.  No,  she 
must  go.  Consciousness  came  slowly  back  to  her  eyes, 
which  had  been  meeting  Miss  Vanhorn's  blankly. 
."  I  can  not  stay,"  she  said. 

Miss  Vaiiliorn  thrust  her  away  violently.  "I  am 
well  paid  for  having  had  anything  to  do  with  Douglas 
blood, "  she  cried,  her  voice  trembling  with  anger.  ' '  Get 
back  into  the  wilderness  from  whence  you  came !  I  will 
never  hear  your  name  on  earth  again . ' '  She  left  the  room. 
In  a  few  moments  Bessmer  appeared,  her  eyes  red 
dened  by  tears,  and  announced  that  the  wagon  was  wait 
ing.  It  was  at  a  side  door.  At  this  hour  there  was  no 
one  on  the  piazzas,  and  Anne's  trunk. was  carried  down, 
and  she  herself  followed  with  Bessmer,  without  being 
seen  by  any  one  save  the  servants  and  old  John  Caryl. 

"  I  am  not  to  say  anything  to  you,  Miss  Douglas,  if  you 
please,  but  just  the  ordinary  things,  if  you  please,"  said 
Bessmer,  as  the  wagon  bore  them  away.  ' '  You  are  to 
take  the  three  o'clock  train,  and  go— wherever  you  please, 
she  said.  I  was  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,  Bessmer;  do  not  be  troubled.  I  know  what  to 
do.  Will  you  tell  grandaunt,  when  you  return,  that  I 
beg  her  to  forgive  what  has  seemed  obstinacy,  but  was 
only  sad  necessity.  Can  you  remember  it  ?" 

"Yes,  miss;  only  sad  necessity,"  repeated  Bessmer, 
with  dropping  tears.  She  was  a  meek  woman,  with  a 
comfortable  convexity  of  person,  which,  however,  did  not 
seem  to  give  her  confidence. 

"I  was  not  to  know,  miss,  if  you  please,  where  you 
bought  tickets  to,"  she  said,  as  the  wagon  stopped  at  the 


296  ANNE. 

little  station.      ''I  was  to  give  you  this,  and  then  go 
right  back." 

She  handed  Anne  an  envelope  containing- a  fifty-dollar 
note.  Anne  looked  at  it  a  moment.  "I  will  not  take 
this,  I  think ;  you  can  tell  grandaunt  that  I  have  money 
enough  for  the  present, "  she  said,  returning  it.  She  gave 
her  hand  kindly  to  the  weeping  maid,  who  was  then  driv 
en  away  in  the  wagon,  her  sun-umbrella  held  askew  over 
her  respectable  brown  bonnet,  her  broad  shoulders  shaken 
with  her  sincere  grief.  A  turn  in  the  road  soon  hid 
even  this  poor  friend  of  hers  from  view.  Anne  was 
alone. 

The  station-keeper  was  not  there ;  his  house  was  near 
by,  but  hidden  by  a  grove  of  maples,  and  Anne,  standing 
on  the  platform,  seemed  all  alone,  the  two  shining  rails 
stretching  north  and  south  having  the  peculiarly  solitary 
aspect  which  a  one-track  railway  always  has  among 
green  fields,  with  no  sign  of  life  in  sight.  No  train  has 
passed,  or  ever  will  pass.  It  is  all  a  dream.  She  walked 
to  and  fro.  She  could  see  into  the  waiting-room,  which 
was  adorned  with  three  framed  texts,  and  another  placard 
not  religiously  intended,  but  referring,  on  the  contrary, 
to  steamboats,  which  might  yet  be  so  interpreted,  name 
ly,  "Take  the  Providence  Line."  She  noted  the  drearily 
ugly  round  stove,  faded  below  to  white,  planted  in  a 
sand-filled  box ;  she  saw  the  bench,  railed  off  into  single 
seats  by  iron  elbows,  and  remembered  that  during  her 
journey  eastward,  two,  if  not  three,  of  these  places  were 
generally  filled  with  the  packages  of  some  solitary  fe 
male  of  middle  age,  clad  in  half-mourning,  who  remain 
ed  stonily  unobservant  of  the  longing  glances  cast  upon 
the  space  she  occupied.  These  thoughts  came  to  her  me 
chanically.  When  a  decision  has  finally  been  made, 
and  for  the  present  nothing  more  can  be  done,  the  mind 
goes  wandering  off  on  trivial  errands ;  the  flight  of  a  bird, 
the  passage  of  the  fairy  car  of  thistle-down,  are  sufficient 
to  set  it  in  motion.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been 
there  a  long  time,  when  a  step  came  through  the  grove: 
Hosea  Plympton. — or,  as  he  was  called  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  Hosy  Plim— was  unlocking  the  station  door.  Anne 


ANNE.  297 

bought  her  ticket,  and  had  her  trunk  checked ;  she  hoped 
to  reach  the  half-house  before  midnight. 

Hosy  having  attended  to  his  official  business  with  dig 
nity,  now  came  out  to  converse  unofficially  with  his  one 
passenger.  "From  Caryl's,  ain't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Anne. 

"Gohr  to  New  York?" 

"Yes." 

"I  haven't  yet  ben  to  that  me4ropo-lis,"  said  Hosy. 
"On  some  accounts  I  should  admire  to  go,  on  others  not. 
Ben  long  at  Caryl's  ?" 

"Yes,  some  time." 

' '  My  wife's  cousin  helps  over  there  ;  Mirandy's  her 
name.  And  she  tells  me,  Mi  randy  does,  that  the  heap 
of  washing  over  to  that  house  is  a  sight  to  see.  She 
tells  me,  Mirandy  does,  that  they  don't  especial  dress  up 
for  the  Sabbath  over  there,  not  so  much  even  as  on  other 
days." 

"That  is  true,  I  believe." 

"Sing'lar,"  said  the  little  man,  "what  folks  '11  do  as 
has  the  money !  They  don't  seem  to  be  capable  of  en- 
j'ying  themselves  exactly;  and  p'r'aps  that's  what  Prov 
idence  intends.  We  haven't  had  city  folks  at  Caryl's 
until  lately,  miss,  you  see ;  and  I  confess  they've  ben  a 
coiitinooal  study  to  me  ever  since.  'Tis  amazin'  the  ways 
the  Lord  '11  take  to  make  us  contented  with  our  lot. 
Till  I  see  'em,  I  thought  'em  most  downright  and  all  ev- 
erlastin'  to  be  envied.  But  now  I  feel  the  ba'm  of  com 
fort  and  innard  strengthenin'  when  I  see  how  little  they 
know  how  to  enj'y  themselves,  after  all.  Here's  the  train, 
miss." 

In  another  moment  Anne  felt  herself  borne  away — 
away  from  the  solitary  station,  with  its  shining  lines  of 
rails ;  from  the  green  hills  which  encircled  Caryl's ;  from 
the  mountain-peaks  beyond.  She  had  started  on  her 
journey  into  the  wTide  world. 

In  darkness,  but  in  safety,  she  arrived  at  the  half- 
house,  in  the  station-keeper's  wagon,  a  few  minutes  be 
fore  midnight.  A  light  was  still  burning,  and  in  re 
sponse  to  her  knock  Jeanne  -  Armande  herself  opened 


298  ANNE. 

the  door,  clad  in  a  wrapper,  with  a  wonderful  flannel  cap 
on  her  head.  She  was  much  astonished  to  see  her  pu 
pil,  but  received  her  cordially,  ordered  the  trunk  brought 
in,  and  herself  attended  to  the  beating  down,  of  the  sta 
tion-keeper's  boy  to  a  proper  price  for  his  services.  She 
remarked  upon  his  audacity  and  plainly  criminal  ten 
dencies  ;  she  thoroughly  sifted  the  physical  qualities  of 
the  horse ;  she  objected  to  the  shape  of  the  wagon ;  and 
finally,  she  had  noted  his  manner  of  bringing  in  the 
trunk,  and  shaving  its  edges  as  well  as  her  doorway,  and 
she  felt  that  she  must  go  over  to  the  station  herself  early 
in  the  morning,  and  lodge  a  complaint  against  him. 
What  did  he  mean  by —  But  here  the  boy  succumbed, 
and  departed  with  half-price,  and  Jeanne- Armaiide  took 
breath,  and  closed  the  door  in  triumph. 

"You  see  that  I  have  come  back  to  you,  mademoiselle," 
said  Anne,  with  a  faint  smile.  ''Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?" 

' '  Yes ;  but  no,  not .  now.  You  are  very  weary,  my 
child ;  you  look  pale  and  worn.  Would  you  like  some 
coffee  ?]' 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  who  felt  a  faint  exhaustion  steal 
ing  over  her.  "  But  the  fast-day  coffee  will  do."  For 
there  was  one  package  of  coffee  in  the  store-room  which 
went  by  that  name,  and  which  old  Nora  was  instructed 
to  use  on  Fridays.  Not  that  Jeanne- Armaiide  followed 
strict  rules  and  discipline;  but  she  had  bought  that  cof 
fee  at  an  auction  sale  in  the  city  for  a  very  low  price, 
and  it  proved  indeed  so  low  in  quality  that  they  could 
not  drink  it  more  than  once  a  week.  Certainly,  therefore, 
Friday  was  the  appropriate  day. 

"No,"  said  the  hostess,  "you  shall  have  a  little  of  the 
other,  child.  Come  to  the  kitchen.  Nora  has  gone  to 
bed,  but  I  will  arrange  a  little  supper  for  you  with  my 
own  hands." 

They  went  to  the  bare  little  room,  where  a  mouse  would 
have  starved.  But  mademoiselle  was  not  without  re 
sources,  and  keys.  Soon  she  "arranged"  a  brisk  little 
fire  and  a  cheery  little  stew,  while  the  pint  coffee-pot 
sent  forth  a  delicious  fragrance.  Sitting  there  in  a 
wooden  chair  beside  the  little  stove,  Anne  felt  more  of 


ANNE.  299 

home  comfort  than  she  had  ever  known  at  Caryl's,  and 
the  thin  miserly  teacher  was  kinder  than  her  graiidaunt 
had  ever  been.  She  ate  and  drank,  and  was  warmed; 
then,  sitting  by  the  dying  coals,  she  told  her  story,  or 
rather  as  much  of  it  as  it  was  necessary  mademoiselle 
should  know. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Jeanne- Armande,  "and  especially 
since  she  has  no  relative,  this  grandaunt,  nearer  than 
yourself.  Could  nothing  be  done  in  the  way  of  renew 
al,  as  to  heart-strings  ?" 

"  Not  at  present.  I  must  rely  upon  you,  mademoiselle ; 
in  this,  even  Tante  can  not  help  me." 

"That  is  true;  she  can  not.  She  even  disapproved  of 
my  own  going  forth  into  the  provinces,"  said  Jeanne- 
Armande,  with  the  air  of  an  explorer.  "We  have  dif 
ferent  views  of  life,  Hortense  Moreau  and  I ;  but  there ! 
— we  respect  each  other.  Of  how  much  money  can  you 
dispose  at  present,  my  child  f ' 

Anne  told  the  sum. 

"If  it  is  so  little  as  that, "  said  Jeanne- Armande,  "it 
will  be  better  for  you  to  go  westward  with  me  immedi 
ately.  I  start  earlier  than  usual  this  year ;  you  can  take 
the  journey  with  me,  and  share  expenses ;  in  this  way  we 
shall  both  be  able  to  save.  Now  as  to  chances :  there  is 
sometimes  a  subordinate  employed  under  me,  when  there 
is  a  press  of  new  scholars.  This  is  the  autumn  term : 
there  may  be  a  press.  I  must  prepare  you,  however,  for 
the  lowest  of  low  salaries,"  said  the  teacher,  her  voice 
changing  suddenly  to  a  dry  sharpness.  ' '  I  shall  present 
you  as  a  novice,  to  whom  the  privilege  of  entering  the 
institution  is  an  equivalent  of  money." 

"I  expect  but  little,"  said  Anne.  "A  beginner  must 
take  the  lowest  place." 

On  the  second  day  they  started.  Jeanne- Armande  was 
journeying  to  Weston  this  time  by  a  roundabout  way. 
By  means  of  excursion  tickets  to  Valley  City,  offered  for 
low  rates  for  three  days,  she  had  found  that  she  could  (in 
time)  reach  Weston  via  the  former  city,  and  effect  a  sav 
ing  of  one  dollar  and  ten  cents.  With  the  aid  of  her 
basket,  no  additional  meals  would  be  required,  and  the 


300  ANNE. 

money  saved,  therefore,  would  be  pure  gain.  There  was 
only  one  point  undecided,  namely,  should  she  go  through 
to  Valley  City,  or  change  at  a  junction  twenty  miles 
this  side  for  the  northern  road  ?  What  would  be  the  sav 
ing,  if  any,  by  going  on  ?  What  by  changing  ?  No  one 
could  tell  her ;  the  complication  of  excursion  rates  to  Val 
ley  City  for  the  person  who  was  not  going  there,  and  the 
method  of  night  travel  for  a  person  who  would  neither 
take  a  sleeping-car,  nor  travel  in  a  day  car,  combined 
themselves  to  render  more  impassive  still  the  ticket 
sellers,  safely  protected  in  their  official  round  towers 
from  the  rabble  of  buyers  outside.  Regarding  the  main 
lines  between  New  York  and  Weston,  and  all  their 
connections,  it  would  be  safe  to  say  that  mademoiselle 
knew  more  than  the  officials  themselves.  The  remain 
der  of  the  continent  was  an  unknown  wilderness  in  her 
mind,  but  these  lines  of  rails,  over  which  she  was  obliged 
to  purchase  her  way  year  after  year,  she  understood 
thoroughly.  She  had  tried  all  the  routes,  and  once  she 
had  gone  through  Canada;  she  had  looked  at  canal-boats 
.meditatively.  She  was  haunted  by  a  vision  that  some 
day  she  might  find  a  clean  captain  and  captain's  wife 
who  would  receive  her  as  passenger,  and  allow  her  to 
cook  her  own  little  meals  along  shore.  Once,  she  ex 
plained  to  Anne,  a  Sunday-school  camp-meeting  had  re 
duced  the  rates,  she  being  apparently  on  her  way  thither. 
She  had  always  regretted  that  the  season  of  State  fairs 
was  a  month  later :  she  felt  herself  capable  of  being  on  her 
way  to  all  of  them. 

' '  But  now,  whether  to  go  on  to  Valley  City,  or  to  leave 
the  train  at  Stringhamptoii  Junction,  is  the  question  I  can 
not  decide,"  she  said,  with  irritation,  having  returned  dis 
comfited  from  another  encounter  with  a  ticket-seller. 

"We  reach  Weston  by  both  routes,  do  we  not  ?"  said 
Anne. 

' '  Of  course ;  that  follows  without  saying.  Evidently 
you  do  not  comprehend  the  considerations  which  are 
weighing  upon  me.  However,  I  will  get  it  out  of  the 
ticket  agent  at  New  Macedonia,"  said  mademoiselle,  ris 
ing.  "Come,  the  train  is  ready." 


ANNE.  301 

They  were  going  only  as  far  as  New  Macedonia  that 
night;  mademoiselle  had  slept  there  twice,  and  intend 
ed  to  sleep  there  again.  Once,  in  her  decorous  maiden 
life,  she  had  passed  a  night  in  a  sleeping-car,  and  never 
again  would  her  foot  "cross  the  threshold  of  one  of  those 
outrageous  inventions."  She  remembered  even  now 
with  a  shudder  the  processions  of  persons  in  muffled 
drapery  going  to  the  wash-rooms  in  the  early  morning. 
New  Macedonia  existed  only  to  give  suppers  and  break 
fasts;  it  had  but  two  narrow  sleeping  apartments  over 
its  abnormal  development  of  dining-room  below.  But 
the  military  genius  of  Jeanne  -  Armande  selected  it  on 
this  very  account ;  for  sleeping-rooms  where  no  one  ever 
slept,  half-price  could  in  conscience  alone  be  charged. 
All  night  Anne  was  wakened  at  intervals  by  the  rushing 
sound  of  passing  trains.  Once  she  stole  softly  to  the  un 
curtained  window  and  looked  out;  clouds  covered  the 
sky,  no  star  was  visible,  but  down  the  valley  shone  a 
spark  which  grew  and  grew,  and  then  turned  white  and 
intense,  as,  with  a  glare  and  a  thundering  sound,  a  lo 
comotive  rushed  by,  with  its  long  line  of  dimly  light 
ed  sleeping-cars  swiftly  and  softly  following  with  their 
unconscious  human  freight,  the  line  ending  in  two  red 
eyes  looking  back  as  the  train  vanished  round  a  curve. 

"Ten  hours'  sleep, "said  mademoiselle,  awaking  with 
satisfaction  in  the  morning.  ' '  I  now  think  we  can  sit 
up  to-night  in  the  Valley  City  waiting-room,  and  save  the 
price  of  lodgings.  Until  twelve  they  would  think  we 
were  waiting  for  the  midnight  train ;  after  that,  the  night 
porter,  who  comes  on  duty  then,  would  suppose  it  was 
the  early  morning  express." 

"Then  you  have  decided  to  go  through  to  Valley 
City  ?"  asked  Anne. 

"Yes,  since  by  this  arrangement  we  can  do  it  without 
expense." 

Two  trains  stopped  at  New  Macedonia  for  breakfast, 
one  eastward  bound  from  over  the  Alleghanies,  the  other 
westward  bound  from  New  York.  Jeanne- Armande's 
strategy  was  to  enter  the  latter  while  its  passengers  were 
at  breakfast,  and  take  bodily  possession  of  a  good  seatj 


302  ANNE. 

removing,  if  necessary,  a  masculine  bag  or  two  left  there 
as  tokens  of  ownership  ;  for  the  American  man  never 
makes  war  where  the  gentler  sex  is  concerned,  but  re 
treats  to  another  seat,  or  even  to  the  smoking-car,  with 
silent  generosity. 

Breakfast  was  now  over ;  the  train-boy  was  exchanging 
a  few  witticisms  with  the  pea-nut  vender  of  the  station, 
a  brakeman  sparred  playfully  with  the  baggage  porter, 
and  a  pallid  telegraph  operator  looked  on  from  his  win 
dow  with  interest.  Meanwhile  the  conductor,  in  his  stiff 
official  cap,  pared  a  small  apple  with  the  same  air  of  fix 
ed  melancholy  and  inward  sarcasm  which  he  gave  to  all 
his  duties,  large  and  small;  when  it  was  eaten,  he  threw 
the  core  with  careful  precision  at  a  passing  pig,  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  called  out,  suddenly  and  sternly,  "All 
aboard!"  The  train  moved  on. 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  At  ten  there  came  into  the  car  a 
figure  Anne  knew — Ward  Heathcote. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Man  is  a  bundle  of  contradictions,  tied  together  with  fancies."— 
PERSIAN  PROVERB. 

"  The  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love, 
For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  desires. 
Nor  death  I  heed,  nor  purgatorial  fires. 
Forgive  me  if  I  can  not  turn  away 
From  those  sweet  eyes  that  are  my  earthly  heaven, 
For  they  are  guiding  stars,  benignly  given 
To  tempt  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way." 

— MICHAEL  AXGELO. 

DIRE  was  the  wrath  of  Helen  Lorrington  when,  hav 
ing  carefully  filled  the  measure  of  her  lost  sleep,  she  sent 
a  little  note  across  to  Anne,  and  answer  was  returned 
that  Miss  Douglas  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Lorrington,  with  compliments  to  Miss  Vanhorn, 
then  begged  (on  a  card)  to  be  informed  ivhere  Miss  Doug 
las  was  gone.  Miss  Vanhorn,  with  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Lorrington  (also  on  a  card),  returned  answer  that  she 


303 

did  not  know.  Mrs.  Lorrington,  deeply  grieved  to  dis 
turb  Miss  Vanhorn  a  second  time,  then  requested  to  be 
'avored  with  Miss  Douglas's  address.  Miss  Vanhorn, 
with  assurances  that  it  was  no  disturbance,  but  always 
a  pleasure  to  oblige  Mrs.  Lorrington,  replied  that  she  did 
not  possess  it.  Then  Helen  waited  until  the  old  coupe 
rolled  away  for  an  afternoon  drive,  its  solitary  occupant 
inside,  her  profile,  visible  between  the  two  closed  glass 
.windows  like  an  object  mounted  for  a  microscope,  and 
going  across,  beguiled  the  mild  Bessmer  to  tell  all  she 
knew.  This  was  not  much ;  but  the  result  was  great  aii- 
ger  in  Helen's  mind,  and  a  determination  to  avenge  the 
harsh  deed.  Bessmer  did  not  know  causes,  but  she  knew 
actions.  Anne  had  been  sent  away  in  disgrace,  the  maid 
being  forbidden  to  know  even  the  direction  the  lonely 
traveller  had  taken.  Helen,  quick  to  solve  riddles,  solved 
this,  at  least  as  far  as  one  side  of  it  was  concerned,  and 
the  quick,  partially  correct  guesses  of  a  quick-witted  wo 
man  are  often,  by  their  very  nearness,  more  misleading 
than  any  others.  Mr.  Dexter  had  been  with  Anne  during 
the  evening  of  the  ball ;  probably  he  had  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife.  Anne,  faithful  to  her  engagement,  had 
refused  him;  and  Miss  Vanhorn,  faithful  to  her  cruel 
nature,  had  sent  her  away  in  disgrace.  And  when  Hel 
en  learned  that  Mr.  Dexter  had  gone  also— gone  early 
in  the  morning  before  any  one  was  stirring— she  took  it 
as  confirmation  of  her  theory,  and  was  now  quite  sure. 
She  would  tell  all  the  house,  she  said  to  herself.  She 
began  by  telling  Heathcote. 

They  were  strolling  in  the  garden.     She  turned  toward 
the  little  arbor  at  the  end  of  the  path. 

"  Not  there,"  said  Heathcote. 

"Why  not?     Have   you  been  there  so  much  with 
Rachel  ?"  said  his  companion,  in  a  sweet  voice. 

"Never,  I  think.     But  arbors  are  damp  holes." 

''Nevertheless,  I  am  going  there,  and  you  are  going 
with  me." 

' '  As  you  please. " 

' '  Ward,  how  much  have  you  been  with  Rachel  ?"  she 
asked,  when  they  were  seated  in  the  little  bower,  which 


304  %  ANNE. 

was  overgrown  with  the  old-fashioned  vine  called  mat 
rimony. 

"  Oh!"  said  Heathcote,  with  a  sound  of  fatigue  in  his 
voice.  "Are  we  never  to  have  an  end  to  that  sub 
ject?" 

"Yes;  when  you  make  an  end." 

"  One  likes  to  amuse  one's  self.     You  do." 
v  "  Whom  do  you  mean  now  ?"  said  Helen,  diverted  from 
her  questions  for  the  moment,  as  he  intended  she  should 
be. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Heathcote  did  not  mean  any  one; 
but  he  never  hesitated.  So  now  he  answered,  promptly, 
"Dexter."  He  had  long  ago  discovered  that  he  could 
make  any  woman  believe  he  was  jealous  of  any  man,  no 
matter  whom,  even  one  to  whom  she  had  never  spoken; 
it  presupposed  that  the  other  man  had  been  all  the  time 
a  silent  admirer,  and  on  this  point  the  grasp  of  the  fem 
inine  imagination  is  wide  and  hopeful. 

"How  like  you  that  is !     Mr.  Dexter  is  nothing  to  me." 

"You  have  been  out  driving  with  him  already, " said 
Heathcote,  pursuing  his  advantage;  "and  you  have  not 
been  out  with  me." 

"He  has  gone;  so  we  need  not  quarrel  about  him." 

"When  did  he  go?" 

"Early  this  morning.  And  to  show  you  how  unjust 
you  are,  he  went  because  last  evening  Anne  Douglas  re 
fused  him." 

"Then  he  was  refused  twice  in  one  day, "said  Heath 
cote.  "Mrs.  Bannert  refused  him  at  six." 

i '  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"She  told  me." 

"  Traitorous  creature !" 

"Oh  no;  she  is  an  especial — I  may  say  confidential- 
friend  of  mine." 

"  Then  what  am  I  ?" 

"Not  a  friend  at  all,  I  hope,"  said  the  man  beside  her. 
"Something  more."  He  was  pulling  a  spray  of  vine  to 
pieces,  and  did  not,  look  up ;  but  Helen  was  satisfied,  and 
smiled  to  herself  brightly.  She  now  went  back  to  Anne. 
"  Did  you  know  poor  Anne  was  gone  too,  Ward  ?" 


ANNE.  305 

4 '  Gone !"  said  Heathcote,  starting.  Then  he  controlled 
himself.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

1 '  I  mean  that  Miss  Vanhorn  cruelly  sent  her  away 
this  afternoon  without  warning,  and  with  only  a  little 
money;  Bessmer  was  not  even  allowed  to  inquire  what 
she  intended  to  do,  or  where  she  was  going.  I  have  been 
haunted  ever  since  I  heard  it  by  visions  of  the  poor  child 
arriving  in  New  York  all  alone,  and  perhaps  losing  her 
way:  she  only  knew  that  one  tip-town  locality  near 
Moreau's." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  no  one  knows  where  she  has 
gone  ?" 

"No  one.  Bessmer  tells  me  that  the  old  dragon  was 
in  one  of  her  black  rages.  Mr.  Dexter  was  with  Anne  for 
some  time  in  the  little  parlor  during  the  ball  last  evening, 
and  Miss  Vanhorn  had  the  room  made  ready,  as  though 
she  expected  him.  Here  are  the  few  lines  the  poor  child 
left  for  me :  they  are  constrained,  and  very  unlike  her ; 
but  I  suppose  she  was  too  troubled  to  choose  her  words. 
She  told  me  herself  only  the  day  before  that  she  was 
very  unhappy." 

Heathcote  took  the  little  note,  and  slipped  it  into  an 
inner  pocket.  He  said  nothing,  and  went  on  stripping 
the  vine. 

"There  is  one  thing  that  puzzles  me,"  continued  Hel 
en.  "  Bessmer  heard  the  old  woman  say,  violently,  '  You 
have  thrown  yourself  at  the  feet  of  a  man  who  is  simply 
laughing  at  you. '  Now  Anne  never  threw  herself  at  any 
man's  feet — unless,  indeed,  it  might  be  the  feet  of  that 
boy  on  the  island  to  whom  she  is  engaged.  I  do  not  know 
how  she  acts  when  with  him." 

"  It  is  a  pity,  since  Bessmer  overheard  so  much,  that 
while  she  was  about  it  she  did  not  overhear  more, "  said 
Heathcote,  dryly. 

' '  You  need  not  suspect  her :  she  is  as  honest  as  a  cow, 
and  as  unimaginative.  She  happened  to  catch  that  sen 
tence  because  she  had  entered  the  next  room  for  some 
thing  ;  but  she  went  out  again  immediately,  and  heard  no 
more.  What  I  fear  is  that  Miss  Vanhorn  has  dismissed 
her  entirely,  and  that  I  shall  not  see  her  again,  even  at 

20 


306  ANNE. 

Moreau's.  In  the  note  she  says  that  she  will  send  me 
her  address  when  she  can,  which  is  oddly  expressed,  is  it 
not  ?  I  suppose  she  means  that  she  will  send  it  when 
she  knows  where  she  is  to  be.  Poor  child !  think  of  her 
to-night  out  in  the  hard  world  all  alone  1" 

"I  do  think  of  her." 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  care  so  much.  But  you  know 
how  much  attached  to  her  I  am." 

"Yes." 

"She  is  an  odd  girl.  Undeveloped,  yet  very  strong. 
She  would  refuse  a  prince,  a  king,  without  a  thought,  and 
work  all  her  life  like  a  slave  for  the  man  she  loved,  who 
ever  he  might  be.  In  truth,  she  has  done  what  amounts 
to  nearly  the  same  thing,  if  my  surmises  are  correct. 
Those  children  011  the  island  were  pensioned,  and  I  pre 
sume  the  old  dragon  has  stopped  the  pension." 

"Have  you  no  idea  where  she  has  gone  ?" 

"Probably  to  Mademoiselle  Pitre  at  Lancaster,  on 
the  Inside  Road;  I  stopped  there  once  to  see  her.  It 
would  be  her  first  resource.  I  shall  hear  from  her,  of 
course,  in  a  few  days,  and  then  I  shall  help  her  in 
every  way  in  my  power.  We  will  not  let  her  suffer, 
Ward." 

"No." 

Then  there  was  a  pause. 

"Are  you  not  chilly  here,  Helen  ?" 

"It  is  damp,"  said  Mrs.  Lorrington,  rising.  She  al 
ways  followed  the  moods  of  this  lethargic  suitor  of  hers 
as  closely  as  she  could  divine  them ;  she  took  the  ad 
vance  in  every  oblique  and  even  retrograde  movement 
he  made  so  swiftly  that  it  generally  seemed  to  have  orig 
inated  with  herself.  In  five  minutes  they  were  in  the 
house,  and  she  had  left  him. 

In  what  was  called  the  office,  a  group  of  young  men 
were  discussing,  over  their  cigars,  a  camping  party ;  the 
mountains,  whose  blue  sides  lay  along  the  western  sky, 
afforded  good  hunting  ground  still,  and  were  not  as  yet 
farmed  out  to  clubs.  The  men  now  at  Caryl's  generally 
camped  out  for  a  few  weeks  every  year;  it  was  one  of 
their  habits.  Heathcote,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets 


ANNE.  307 

cf  his  sack-coat,  walked  up  and  down,  listening.  After 
a  while,  "I  think  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said. 

"Come  along,  then,  old  fellow;  I  wish  you  would." 

"  When  are  you  going  ?" 

' '  To-morrow  morning — early. " 

"By  wagon?" 

"Train  to  the  junction;  then  wagons." 

' '  How  long  shall  you  stay  ?" 

"A  week  or  two." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Heathcote.  He  threw  away  his  cigar, 
and  started  toward  his  room.  Helen  was  singing  in 
the  parlor  as  he  passed ;  he  paused  outside  for  a  moment 
to  listen.  Every  one  was  present  save  Anne  and  Greg 
ory  Dexter ;  yet  the  long  room  wore  to  him  already  the 
desolate  and  empty  aspect  of  summer  resorts  in  Septem 
ber.  He  could  see  the  singer  plainly ;  he  leaned  against 
the  wall  and  looked  at  her.  He  liked  her;  she  fitted 
into  all  the  grooves  of  his  habits  and  tastes.  And  he 
thought  she  would  marry  him  if  he  pushed  the  matter. 
While  he  was  thus  meditating,  a  soft  little  hand  touched 
his  arm  in  the  darkness.  "  I  saw  you,"  said  Rachel,  in  a 
whisper,  "and  came  round  to  join  you.  You  are  looking 
at  Helen ;  what  a  flute-like  voice  she  has !  Let  us  go  out 
and  listen  to  her  on  the  piazza." 

Mr.  Heathcote  would  be  delighted  to  go.  He  hated 
that  parlor,  with  all  those  people  sitting  round  in  a  row. 
How  could  Rachel  stand  it  ? 

Rachel,  with  a  pathetic  sigh,  answered,  How  could  she 
do  as  she  wished  ?  She  had  no  talent  for  deception. 

Heathcote  regretted  this ;  he  wished  with  all  his  heart 
that  she  had. 

His  heart  was  not  all  his  to  wish  with,  Rachel  suggest 
ed,  in  a  cooing  murmur. 

He  answered  that  it  was.  And  then  they  went  out 
on  the  piazza. 

Helen  missed  Rachel,  and  suspected,  but  sang  on  as 
sweetly  as  ever.  At  last/however,  even  Rachel  could  not 
keep  the  recreant  admirer  longer.  He  went  off  to  his 
room,  filled  a  travelling  bag,  lit  a  cigar,  and  then  sat 
down  to  write  a  note : 


308  ANNE. 

"DEAR  HELEN, — 1  have  decided  suddenly  to  go  with 
the  camping  party  to  the  mountains  for  a  week  or  two; 
we  leave  early  in  the  morning.  I  shall  hope  to  find  you 
still  here  when  I  return.  W.  H." 

He  sealed  this  missive,  threw  it  aside,  and  then  began 
to  study  a  railway  guide.  To  a  person  going  across  to 
the  mountains  in  a  wagon,  a  knowledge  of  the  latest  time 
tables  was,  of  course,  important. 

The  next  morning,  while  her  maid  was  coiling  her  fair 
hair,  Mrs.  Lorringtoii  received  the  note,  and  bit  her  lips 
with  vexation. 

The  hunting  party  drove  over  to  the  station  soon  after 
six,  and  waited  there  for  the  early  train.  Hosy  sold  them 
their  tickets,  and  then  came  out  to  gain  a  little  informa 
tion  in  affable  conversation.  All  the  men.  save  Heath- 
cote  were  attired  in  the  most  extraordinary  old  clothes, 
and  they  wore  among  them  an  assortment  of  hats  which 
might  have  won  a  prize  in  a  collection.  Hosy  regarded 
them  with  wonder,  but  his  sharp  freckled  face  betrayed 
no  sign.  They  were  men,  and  he  was  above  curiosity. 
He  ate  an  apple  reflectively,  and  took  an  inward  inventory : 
"Hez  clothes  that  I  wouldn't  be  seen  in,  and  sports  'em 
proud  as  you  please.  Hats  like  a  pirate.  The  strangest 
set  of  fellers !" 

As  the  branch  road  train,  with  a  vast  amount  of  self- 
important  whistling,  drew  near  the  junction  with  the 
main  line,  Heathcote  said  carelessly  that  he  thought  he 
would  run  down  to  the  city  for  a  day  or  two,  and  join 
them  later.  There  was  hue  and  cry  over  this  delin 
quency,  but  he  paid  his  way  to  peace  by  promising  to 
bring  with  him  on  his  return  a  certain  straw -packed 
basket,  which,  more  than  anything  else,  is  a  welcome 
sight  to  poor  hard-worked  hunters  in  a  thirsty  land.  The 
wagons  rolled  away  with  their  loads,  and  he  was  left  to 
take  the  southern-bound  express.  He  reached  the  city  late 
in  the  evening,  slept  there,  and  early  the  next  morning 
went  out  to  Lancaster  Station.  When  he  stepped  otf 
the  train,  a  boy  and  a  red  wagon  were  in  waiting;  no< 
thing  else  save  the  green  country. 


WHILE    HKR  MAID  WAS   COILING   HER  FAIR  HAIR. 


ANNK  309 

' '  Does  a  French  lady  named  Pitre  live  in  this  neigh 
borhood?"  he  inquired  of  the  boy,  who  was  holding  the 
old  mare's  head  watchfully,  as  though,  if  not  restrained, 
she  would  impetuously  follow  the  receding  train.  This 
was  the  boy  witfy  whom  Jeanne- Armande  had  had  her 
memorable  contest  over  Anne's  fare.  Here  was  his 
chance  to  make  up  from  the  pockets  of  this  stranger — 
fair  prey,  since  he  was  a  friend  of  hers— the  money  lost 
on  that  field. 

"  Miss  Peters  lives  not  fur  off.  I  can  drive  you  there 
if  you  want  ter  go." 

Heathcote  took  his  seat  in  the  wagon,  and  slowly  as 
possible  the  boy  drove  onward,  choosing  the  most  round 
about  course,  and  bringing  the  neighborhood  matrons  to 
their  windows  to  see  that  wagon  pass  a  second  time  with 
the  same  stranger  in  it,  going  no  one  knew  where.  At 
last,  all  the  cross-roads  being  exhausted,  the  boy  stopped 
before  the  closed  half -house. 

"Is  this  the  place  ?  It  looks  uninhabited,"  said  Heath- 
cote. 

"  'T  always  looks  so;  she's  such  a  screw,  she  is,"  replied 
Eli,  addressed  as  "Li"  by  his  friends. 

Heathcote  knocked;  no  answer.  He  went  round  to 
the  back  door,  but  found  no  sign  of  life. 

' '  There  is  no  one  here.  Would  any  one  in  the  neigh 
borhood  know  where  she  has  gone  ?" 

"Mr.  Green  might,  over  to  the  store,"  said  Li. 

"Drive  there." 

"I've  got  to  meet  the  next  train,  but  I'll  take  you  as 
fur  as  the  door ;  'tain't  but  a  step  from  there  to  the  station. 
And  you  might  as  well  pay  me  now,"  he  added,  careless 
ly,  "because  the  mare  she's  very  fiery,  and  won't  stand." 
Pocketing  his  money — double  price — he  drove  off,  ex 
ultant.  It  was  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  station,  and  a 
hot,  cloudless  morning. 

Heathcote  made  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Green,  and  ask 
ed  his  question.  There  was  no  one  in  the  shop  at  the 
moment,  and  Mr.  Green  responded  freely  that  he  knew 
Miss  Peters  very  well ;  in  fact,  they  were  old  friends.  She 
had  gone  to  Valley  City  — had,  in  fact,  left  that  very 


310  ANNE. 

morning  in  the  same  red  wagon  which  had  brought  the 
inquirer  to  his  door ;  he,  Green,  looking  out  by  chance, 
had  seen  her  pass.  What  did  she  do  in  Valley  City  ? 
Why,  she  taught  — in  fact,  kept  school.  She  had  kept 
school  there  for  ten  years,  and  he,  Green,  was  the  only 
one  in  the  neighborhood  who  knew  it,  since  she — Miss 
Peters — wasn't  much  liked  about  there,  perhaps  on  ac 
count  of  her  being  a  Papist.  But  in  such  matters,  he, 
Green,  was  liberal.  Did  she  have  any  one  with  her? 
Yes,  she  had ;  in  fact,  Miss  Douglas — same  young  lady  as 
was  there  the  fore  part  of  the  summer.  No,  they  warn't 
going  to  stop  at  all  in  New  York ;  going  right  through 
to  the  West.  Hoped  there  was  no  bad  news  ? 

"No,"  replied  Heathcote. 

But  his  monosyllable  without  details  convinced  the 
hearer  that  there  was,  and  before  night  the  whole  neigh 
borhood  was  humming  with  conjecture.  The  darkest  of 
the  old  suspicions  about  mademoiselle's  past  were  now 
held  to  have  been  verified. 

Heathcote  walked  back  to  the  station  over  the  red  clay 
road,  and  looked  for  that  boy.  But  Li  had  taken  care  to 
make  good  his  retreat.  By  the  delay  two  trains  were 
missed,  and  he  was  obliged  to  wait ;  when  he  reached  the 
city  it  was  two  o'clock,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  pave 
ments  had  never  exhaled  such  withering  heat.  His  rooms 
were  closed ;  he  went  to  the  hotel,  took  a  bath,  took  two, 
but  could  not  recover  either  his  coolness  or  his  temper. 
Even  after  dinner  he  was  still  undecided.  Should  he 
go  westward  to  Valley  City  by  the  ten  o'clock  train  ?  or 
wait  till  morning  ?  or  throw  it  all  up  and  join  the  other 
men  at  the  mountains  ?  It  was  a  close  evening.  Anne 
was  at  that  moment  on  the  ferry-boat. 

Mademoiselle  had  carefully  misled  her  friend  Mr. 
Green  ;  so  great  was  her  caution,  so  intricate  her  ma 
noeuvres,  that  she  not  only  never  once  told  him  the  truth, 
but  also  had  taken  the  trouble  to  invent  elaborate  fictions 
concerning  herself  and  her  school  at  Valley  City  every 
time  she  closed  the  half-house  and  bade  him  good-by. 
The  only  person  who  knew  where  she  really  was  was 
the  Roman  Catholic  priest  who  had  charge  of  the  mission 


ANNE.  3H 

church  at  the  railway  -  car  shops  three  miles  distant  ; 
to  this  secret  agent  was  intrusted  the  duty  of  walking1  over 
once  a  week,  without  exciting  the  notice  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  to  see  if  the  half -house  remained  safe  and  un 
disturbed.  For  this  service  mademoiselle  paid  a  small 
sum  each  week  to  the  mission ;  and  it  was  money  well 
earned.  The  priest,  a  lank,  lonely,  sad-eyed  young  Irish 
man,  with  big  feet  in  low  shoes,  came  down  the  track 
once  in  seven  days  to  Lancaster,  as  if  for  a  walk,  taking 
the  half-house  within  his  varying  circuit,  and,  with  the 
tact  of  his  nation  and  profession,  never  once  betraying 
his  real  object.  On  this  occasion  Jeanne- Ar man de  had 
even  showed  Mr.  Green  her  tickets  to  Valley  City:  what 
could  be  surer  ? 

At  sunset,  in  the  city,  the  air  grew  cooler,  a  salt  breeze 
came  up  the  harbor  from  the  ocean,  tossing  bluely  out 
side.  Heathcote  decided  to  take  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  the  morning  train.  To  the  mountains  ? 

The  next  day  he  was  somewhat  disgustedly  eating 
breakfast  at  New  Macedonia ;  and  going  through  the  cars 
an  hour  later,  came  upon  Anne.  He  had  not  expected 
to  see  her.  He  was  as  much  surprised  as  she  was. 

Why  had  he  followed  her  ?  He  could  hardly  have 
given  a  clear  answer,  save  perhaps  that  he  was  accustom 
ed  to  follow  his  inclinations  wherever  they  led  him,  with 
out  hinderance  or  question.  For  there  existed  no  one  in 
the  world  who  had  the  right  to  question  him ;  and  there 
fore  he  was  without  the  habit  of  accounting  for  what  he 
did,  even  to  himself.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  considered  re 
markable  that,  with  such  a  position  and  training,  he  was, 
as  a  man,  no  worse  than  he  was ;  that  is,  that  he  should 
foe  so  good  a  fellow,  after  all,  when  he  had  possessed  such 
unlimited  opportunities  to  be  a  bad  one.  But  natural  re 
finement  and  fine  physical  health  had  kept  the  balance 
from  swaying  far;  and  the  last-named  influence  is  more 
powerful  than  is  realized.  Many  a  man  of  fine  mind — 
even  genius — is  with  the  dolts  and  the  brutes  in  the  great 
army  of  the  fallen,  owing  to  a  miserable,  weak,  and  dis 
appointing  body.  Of  course  he  should  have  learned,  ear 
ly  in  life,  its  deficiencies,  should  have  guarded  it,  with- 


312  ANNE. 

held  it  and  himself  from  exertions  which  to  his  neigh 
bor  are  naught ;  but  he  does  not  always  learn,  this  lesson. 
The  human  creature  who  goes  through  his  allotted  course 
with  vigorous  health  and  a  physical  presence  fine  enough 
to  command  the  unconscious  respect  of  all  with  whom 
he  comes  in  contact  has  no  conception  of  the  humili 
ations  and  discouragements,  the  struggles  and  failures, 
which  beset  the  path  of  his  weak-bodied  and  physically 
insignificant  brother.  Heathcote,  indolent  as  he  was, 
had  a  superb  constitution,  for  which  and  of  which,  un 
gratefully,  he  had  never  thought  long  enough  to  be 
thankful. 

But  why  was  he  following  Anne  ? 

She  had  told  him  of  her  engagement.  Even  if  he 
could  have  broken  that  engagement,  did  he  wish  to  break 
it  ?  He  said  to  himself  that  it  was  because  his  chivalry, 
as  a  man,  had  been  stirred  by  the  maid's  story  of  Miss 
Vaiihorn's  harsh  words — words  which  he  had  at  once  con 
strued  as  an  allusion  to  himself.  Was  he  not  partially, 
perhaps  wholly,  responsible  for  her  banishment  ?  But, 
even  if  this  were  true,  could  he  not  have  acted  through 
Helen,  who  was  by  far  the  most  fitting  agent  ?  Instead 
of  this,  here  he  was  following  her  himself  1 

Why? 

Simply  because  of  one  look  he  had  had  deep  down  into 
violet  eyes. 

He  had  not  expected  to  find  her  so  soon.  In  truth,  he 
was  following  in  rather  a  purposeless  fashion,  leaving 
much  to  chance,  and  making  no  plans.  They  had  gone 
to  Valley  City ;  he  would  go  to  Valley  City.  Perhaps  he 
should  meet  her  in  the  street  there ;  or  perhaps  he  should 
leave  a  letter ;  perhaps  he  should  do  neither,  but  merely 
turn  round,  his  impulse  satisfied,  and  go  home  again. 
There  was  no  need  to  decide  now.  He  was  on  the  way ; 
that  was  enough.  And  more  than  enough. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  saw  her. 

She  was  sitting  next  the  aisle.  He  put  out  his  hand ; 
she  gave  hers,  and  mechanically  mentioned  his  name  to 
mademoiselle,  who,  helmeted  in  her  travelling  bonnet 
surmounted  by  a  green  veil,  presented  a  martial  front  to 


ANNE.  313 

all  beholders.  There  was  110  vacant  place  near;  he  re 
mained  standing. 

"How  fortunate  that  I  have  met  you!"  he  said,  with 
conventional  cordiality.  ' ;  The  day  promised  to  be  in 
tolerably  long  and  dull." 

Mademoiselle,  who  at  a  glance  had  taken  in  his  appear 
ance  from  head  to  foot  as  only  a  Frenchwoman  can,  in 
quired  if  he  was  going  far,  in  a  voice  so  harmonious,  cam- 
pared  with  the  bonnet,  that  it  was  an  agreeable  surprise. 

"To  Valley  City,"  replied  Heathcote. 

"We  also  are  going  to  Valley  City,"  said  Jeanne- Ar- 
mande,  graciously.  t:It  is  a  pity  there  happens  to  be 
no  vacant  place  near  for  monsieur.  If  some  of  these  good 
people —  Here  she  turned  the  helmet  toward  her  neigh 
bors  behind. 

"Pray  do  not  give  yourself  any  trouble,"  said  Heath- 
cote.  "I  was  on  my  way  to  the  last  car,  hoping  to 
find  more  air  and  space.  If  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
there  two  vacant  seats,  may  I  not  return  for  you  ?  It  will 
be  a  charity  to  my  loneliness." 

"And  a  pleasure,  monsieur,  to  ourselves,"  said  made 
moiselle. 

He  bowed  his  thanks,  and  glanced  again  at  Anne. 
She  had  not  spoken,  and  had  not  looked  at  him  since  her 
first  startled  glance.  But  Jeanne- Armande  was  gracious 
for  two;  she  was  charmed  to  have  a  monsieur  of  such 
distinguished  appearance  standing  in  the  aisle  by  their 
side,  and  she  inwardly  wished  that  she  had  worn  her  sec 
ond  instead  of  her  third  best  gloves  and  veil. 

"Mrs.  Lorrington  misses  you  sadly,"  said  Heathcote 
to  the  silent  averted  face,  more  for  the  sake  of  saying 
something  than  with  any  special  meaning. 

A  slight  quiver  in  the  downcast  eyelids,  but  no  answer. 

"She  hopes  that  you  will  soon  send  her  your  address." 

"It  is  uncertain  as  yet  where  I  shall  be,"  murmured 
Anne. 

"I  thought  you  were  to  be  at  Valley  City  ?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  through  her  mind  passed  the 
thought  that  he  could  not  know,  then,  their  real  destina 
tion.  He  had  been  speaking  in  a  low  voice;  mademoi- 


314  ANNE. 

selle  had  not  heard.  But  he  could  not  carry  on  a  conver 
sation  long  with  a  person  who  would  not  answer.  ' '  I 
will  go  to  the  last  car,  and  see  if  I  can  find  those  seats," 
he  said,  speaking  to  mademoiselle,  and  smiling  as  he 
spoke.  She  thought  him  charming. 

As  soon  as  he  turned  away,  Anne  said :  ' '  Please  do  not 
tell  him  that  ours  are  excursion  tickets,  mademoiselle. 
Let  him  think  that  our  destination  is  really  Valley  City." 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  replied  Jeanne- Armande, 
who  had  a  sympathy  with  all  mysteries;  this  little  speech 
of  Anne's  gave  a  new  spice  to  the  day.  ' '  He  is  one  of  the 
circle  round  your  gran  daunt,  probably  ?" 

"Yes  ;  I  met  him  at  Caryl's." 

' '  A  most  distinguished  personage ;  entirely  as  it  should 
be.  And  did  I  not  overhear  the  name  of  the  charming 
Mrs.  Lorriiigton  also  ?" 

"He  is  a  friend  of  Helen's.  I  think,  I  am  not  sure, 
but  still  I  think  that  they  are  engaged,"  said  Anne, 
bravely. 

"  And  most  appropriate.  I  do  not  know  when  I  have 
been  more  comforted  than  by  the  culture  and  manner  of 
that  elegant  friend  of  yours  who  sought  you  out  at  my 
little  residence ;  I  hope  it  may  be  my  fortunate  privilege 
to  entertain  her  there  again.  From  these  two  examples, 
I  am  naturally  led  to  think  that  the  circle  round  your 
grandauiit  is  one  adjusted  to  that  amiable  poise  so  agree 
able  to  the  feelings  of  a  lady." 

Anne  made  no  reply;  the  circle  round  her  grandauiit 
seemed  to  her  a  world  of  dark  and  menacing  terrors,  from 
which  she  was  fleeing  with  all  the  speed  she  could  sum 
mon.  But,  one  of  these  terrors  had  followed  her. 

Presently  Heathcote  returned..  He  had  found  two  va 
cant  seats,  and  the  car  was  much  better  ventilated  than 
this  one ;  there  was  no  dust,  and  no  one  was  eating  ei 
ther  pea-nuts  or  apples ;  the  floor  was  clean ;  the  cover 
ing  of  the  seats  seemed  to  have  been  recently  renewed. 
Upon  hearing  the  enumeration  of  all  these  advantages, 
mademoiselle  arose  immediately,  and  "monsieur"  was 
extremely  attentive  in  the  matter  of  carrying  shawls, 
packages,  and  baskets.  But  when  they  reached  the  car, 


ANNE.  315 

they  found  that  the  two  seats  were  not  together;  one 
was  at  the  end,  the  other  separated  from  it  by  the  aisle 
and  four  intervening  places. 

' '  I  hoped  that  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  being  with  you  by  turns, "  said  Heathcote, 
gallantly,  to  mademoiselle,  ' '  since  it  was  impossible  to 
find  seats  together."  As  he  spoke,  he  placed  Jeanne- 
Armande  in  one  of  the  seats,  and  Anne  in  the  other;  and 
then  gravely,  but  with  just  the  scintillation  of  a  smile  in 
his  brown  eyes,  he  took  his  own  place,  not  beside  Anne, 
but  beside  the  delighted  Frenchwoman,  who  could  scarce 
ly  believe  her  good  fortune  to  be  real  until  she  found 
him  actually  assisting  her  in  the  disposal  of  basket,  shawl, 
bag,  India-rubber  shoes,  and  precious  although  baggy  um 
brella. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  Philip.  Madam,  a  day  may  sink  or  save  a  realm. 
Mary.  A  day  may  save  a  heart  from  breaking,  too." — TENNYSON. 

MR.  HEATHCOTE  retained  his  place  beside  mademoiselle 
through  a  whole  long  hour.  She  had  time  to  get  over  her 
fear  that  he  would  go  away  soon,  time  to  adjust  her  pow 
ers,  time  to  enlarge,  and  to  do  justice  to  herself  and  sever 
al  subjects  adapted  elegantly  and  with  easy  grace  to  the 
occasion.  In  her  hard-working  life  she  had  seldom  en 
joyed  a  greater  pleasure.  For  Jeanne-Armande  had  good 
blood  in  her  veins ;  the  ends  of  her  poor  old  fingers  were 
finely  moulded,  and  there  had  been  a  title  in  the  family 
long  ago  in  Berri.  And  when  at  last  monsieur  did  go, 
it  was  not  hastily.  The  proper  preliminaries  were  spok 
en,  the  first  little  movement  made,  and  then,  later,  the 
slow  rising,  as  if  with  reluctance,  to  the  feet.  Jeanne- 
Armande  was  satisfied,  and  smiled  with  honeyed  gra- 
ciousness,  as,  after  another  moment's  delay,  he  bowed 
and  went  back  to  the  place  behind,  where  Anne  was  sit 
ting. 

In  truth,  Heathcote  had  not  been  unwilling  to  take 
the  hour  himself;  it  was  not  necessary  to  talk — Jeanne- 


316  ANNE. 

Armande  would  talk  for  two.  The  sight  of  Anne  had 
been  unexpected ;  he  had  not  decided  what  he  should  say 
to  her  even  at  Valley  City,  much  less  here.  After  an 
hour's  thought,  he  took  his  place  beside  her.  And  re 
marked  upon — the  beauty  of  the  day. 

Dexter  would  have  said  something  faultless,  and  all 
the  more  so  if  he  had  wished  to  disguise  his  thoughts. 
But  all  Heathcote  said  was,  "What  a  lovely  day  !" 

"Yes,"  replied  Anne.  In  her  mind  surged  to  and  fro 
one  constant  repetition :  "  Ah,  my  dear  child,  do  you  not 
see  that  I  can  not  help  loving  you  ?  and  that  you — love 
me  also  ?"  "Do  you  not  see  that  I  can  not  help  loving 
you  ?  and  that  you — love  me  also  ?" 

"They  improve  things,  after  all,"  said  Heathcote. 
' '  The  last  time  I  went  over  this  road  the  train-boy  was  a 
poor  little  cripple,  and  therefore  one  couldn't  quite  throw 
his  books  on  the  floor."  This  was  in  allusion  to  the 
progress  of  a  brisk  youth  through  the  car  for  the  pur 
pose  of  depositing  upon  the  patient  knees  of  each  pas 
senger  a  paper-covered  novel,  a  magazine  or  two,  and  a 
song-book. 

— "  And  that  you— love  me  also,"  ran  Anne's  thoughts, 
as  she  looked  out  on  the  gliding  fields. 

There  Was  a  silence.     Then  Heathcote  moved  nearer. 

"  Anne,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "I  was  very  much 
disturbed  when  I  found  that  you  had  gone.  From  the 
little  I  was  able  to  learn,  I  fear  you  were  harshly  treat 
ed  by  that  hard  old  woman  who  calls  herself  your  aunt." 

11  Not  according  to  her  view  of  it,"  said  Anne,  her  face 
still  turned  to  the  window. 

"  I  wish  you  would  look  at  me,  instead  of  at  those  stu 
pid  fields,"  said  Heathcote,  after  a  moment,  in  an  ag 
grieved  tone.  "  Here  I  have  escaped  from  Caryl's  under 
false  pretenses,  told  dozens  of  lies,  spent  a  broiling  morn 
ing  at  a  hole  of  a  place  called  Lancaster,  melted  myself 
in  the  hot  city,  and  bought  tickets  for  all  across  the  con 
tinent,  just  for  the  chance  of  seeing  you  a  moment,  and 
you  will  not  even  look  at  me." 

But  she  had  turned  now.  "Did  you  go  out  to  the 
half-house  ?"  sh^  said,  with  a  little  movement  of  surprise. 


ANNE.  317 

"Yes, "he  answered,  immediately  meeting-  her  eyes, 
and  holding  them  with  his  own.  (They  had  not  precisely 
the  kind  of  expression  which  is  appropriate  to  the  man 
who  has  decided  to  perform  the  part  of  "merely  a  kind 
friend."  But  then  Heathcote  always  looked  more  than 
he  said.) 

"I  am  very  sorry, "she  murmured — "I  mean,  sorry 
that  you  have  followed  me." 

"Why  are  you  sorry?  You  do  not  know  how  dis 
tressed  I  was  when  Mrs.  Lorrington  told  me." 

"Helen!"  said  Anne,  her  eyes  falling  at  the  sound  of 
the  name. 

"She  does  not  know  where  I  am;  no  one  knows. 
They  think  I  have  gone  to  the  mountains.  But — I  could 
not  be  at  peace  with  myself,  Anne,  until  I  had  seen  you 
once  more.  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  met,  that 
morning  in  the  garden?"  She  made  a  mute  gesture 
which  begged  for  silence;  but  he  went  on:  "I  can  nev 
er  forget  that  look  of  yours.  In  truth,  I  fear  I  have  done 
all  this,  have  come  all  this  distance,  and  in  spite  of  my 
self,  for— another." 

There  was  no  one  behind  them ;  they  had  the  last  seat. 
Anne  wras  thinking,  wildly,  "Oh,  if  he  would  but  speak  in 
any  other  tone — say  anything  else  than  that !"  Then  she 
turned,  at  bay.  ' '  Mrs.  Lorrington  told  me  that  you  were 
engaged  to  her,"  she  said,  announcing  it  quietly,  al 
though  her  face  was  very  pale. 

' '  Did  she  ?     It  is  partly  true.     But — I  love  you,  Anne. " 

The  last  words  that  Ward  Heathcote  had  intended  to 
speak,  when  he  took  that  seat  beside  her,  he  had  now 
spoken ;  the  last  step  he  had  intended  to  take  he  had  now 
taken.  What  did  he  mean  ?  He  did  not  know  himself. 
He  only  knew  that  her  face  was  exquisitely  sweet  to  him, 
and  that  he  was  irresistibly  drawn  toward  her,  whether 
he  would  or  no.  "I  love  you,"  he  repeated. 

What  could  be  said  to  such  a  plain,  direct  wooer  as 
this  ?  Anne,  holding  on  desperately  to  her  self-posses 
sion,  and  throwing  up  barriers  mentally,  made  of  all  her 
resolutions  and  duties,  her  pride  and  her  prayers,  drew 
away,  coldly  answering:  "However  you  may  have  for- 


318  ANNE. 

gotten  your  own  engagement,  Mr.  Heathcote,  I  have  not 
forgotten  mine.  It  is  not  right  for  you  to  speak  and  for 
me  to  hear  such  words." 

"  Right  is  nothing,"  said  Heathcote,  "if  we  love  each 
other." 

"We  do  not,"  replied  Anne,  falling  into  the  trap. 

"We  do;  at  least  I  do." 

This  avowal,  again  repeated,  was  so  precious  to  the 
poor  humiliated  pride  of  the  woman's  heart  within  her 
that  she  had  to  pause  an  instant.  "I  was  afraid  you 
would  think,"  she  said,  blushing  brightly — "I  was  afraid 
you  would  think  that  I — I  mean,  that  I  can  not  help  be 
ing  glad  that  you — 

"That  I  love  you ?  I  do.  But  just  as  truly  as  I  love 
you,  Anne,  you  love  me.  You  can  not  deny  it." 

4 '  I  will  not  discuss  the  subject.  I  shall  soon  be  mar 
ried,  Mr.  Heathcote,  and  you — 

"Never  mind  me;  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  And 
so  you  are  going  to  marry  a  man  you  do  not  love  ?" 

"I  do  love  him.  I  loved  him  long  before  I  knew  you ; 
I  shall  love  him  long  after  you  are  forgotten.  Leave 
me;  I  will  not  listen  to  you.  Why  do  you  speak  so  to 
me  ?  Why  did  you  follow  me  ?" 

"Because,  dear,  I  love  you.  I  did  not  fully  know  it 
myself  until  now.  Believe  me,  Anne,  I  had  110  more 
intention  of  speaking  in  this  way  when  I  sat  down  here 
than  I  had  of  following  you  when  I  first  heard  you  had 
gone ;  but  the  next  morning  I  did  it.  Come,  let  every 
thing  go  to  the  winds,  as  I  do,  and  say  you  love  me ;  for 
I  know  you  do." 

The  tears  wrere  in  Anne's  eyes  now ;  she  could  not  see. 
"Let  me  go  to  mademoiselle,"  she  said,  half  rising  as  if 
to  pass  him.  "  It  is  cruel  to  insult  me." 

"Do  not  attract  attention;  sit  down  for  one  moment. 
I  will  not  keep  you  long;  but  you  shall  listen  to  me.  In 
sult  you  ?  Did  I  ever  dream  of  insulting  you  ?  Is  it  an 
insult  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife  ?  That  is  what  I  ask  now. 
I  acknowledge  that  I  did  not  follow  you  with  any  such 
intention.  But  now  that  I  sit  here  beside  you,  I  realize 
what  you  are  to  me.  My  darling,  I  love  you,  child  as 


ANNE.  319 

you  have  seemed.     Look  up,  and  tell  me  that  you  will  be 
my  wife." 

"Never." 

"Why?"  said  Heathcote,  not  in  the  least  believing 
her,  but  watching  the  intense  color  flush  her  face  and 
throat,  and  then  die  away. 

"I  shall  marry  East.     And  you— will  marry  Helen." 

"  As  I  said  before,  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  The  ques 
tion  is  you.''  As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  her  so  insistently 
that,  struggling-  and  unwilling,  she  yet  felt  "herself  com 
pelled  to  meet  his  eyes  in  return. 

"Helen  loves  you  dearly,"  she  said,  desperately. 

They  were  looking  full  at  each  other  now.  "in  the 
close  proximity  required  by  the  noise  of  the  train,  they 
could  see  the  varying  lights  and  shadows  in  the  depths 
of  each  other's  eyes.  The  passengers'  faces  were  all  turn 
ed  forward ;  there  was  no  one  on  a  line  with  them ;  vir 
tually  they  were  alone. 

"I  do  not  know  what  your  object  is  in  bringing  in 
Mrs.  Lorrington's  name  so  often, "  said  Heathcote.  ' '  She 
does  not  need  your  championship,  I  assure  you." 

"How  base  to  desert  her  so !" 

"  Not  any  more  base  than  to  marry  a  man  you  do  not 
love,"  replied  Heathcote.  "I  hardly  know  anything 
more  base  than  that.  But  marry  me,  my  darling,"  he 
added,  his  voice  softening  as  he  bent  toward  her,°"and 
you  shall  see  how  I  will  love  you." 

"You  said  I  could  go,"  said  the  girl,  turning  from 
him,  and  putting  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

"You  may  go,  if  you  are  afraid.  *But  I  hardly  think 
you  a  coward.  No;  let  us  have  it  out  now.  Here  you 
are,  engaged.  Here  I  am,  half  engaged.  We  meet.  Do 
you  suppose  I  wish  to  love  you  ?  Not  at  all.  You  are  by 
no  means  the  wife  I  have  intended  to  have.  Do  you  wish 
to  love  me  ?  No.  You  wish  to  be  faithful  to  your  en 
gagement.  In  a  worldly  point  of  view  we  could  not  do 
a  more  foolish  deed  than  to  marry  each  other.  You  have 
nothing,  and  a  burden  of  responsibilities ;  I  have  very  lit 
tle,  and  a  much  heavier  burden  of  bad  habits  and  idleness. 
What  is  the  result?  By  some  unknown  enchantment 


320  ANNE. 

I  begin  to  love  you,  you  begin  to  love  me.  The  very 
fact  that  I  am  sitting  here  to-day  conclusively  proves  the 
former.  I  am  as  fond  of  you  as  a  school-boy,  Anne.  In 
truth,  you  have  made  me  act  like  a  school-boy.  This  is 
a  poor  place  to  woo  you  in ;  but,  dear,  just  look  at  me 
once,  only  once  more." 

But  Anne  would  not  look.  In  all  her  struggles  and 
all  her  resolutions,  all  her  jealousy  and  her  humiliation, 
she  had  made  no  provision  against  this  form  of  trial, 
namely,  that'he  should  love  her  like  this. 

"Oh,  go,  go;  leave  me," she  murmured,  hardly  able  to 
speak.  He  gathered  the  words  more  from  the  movement 
of  her  lips  than  from  any  sound. 

"I  will  go  if  you  wish  it.  But  I  shall  come  back,"  he 
said.  And  then,  quietly,  he  left  her  alone,  and  returned 
to  Jeanne- Armaiide. 

The  Frenchwoman  was  charmed;  she  had  not  expect 
ed  him  so  soon.  She  said  to  herself,  with  a  breath  of  sat 
isfaction,  that  her  conversation  had  fallen  in  fit  places. 

Alone,  looking  at  the  hills  as  they  passed  in  procession, 
Anne  collected  her  scattered  resolves,  and  fought  her  bat 
tle.  In  one  way  it  was  a  sweet  moment  to  her.  She 
had  felt  dyed  with  eternal  shame  at  having  given  her 
love  unsought,  uncared  for ;  but  he  loved  her — even  if 
only  a  little,  he  loved  her.  This  was  balm  to  her  wound 
ed  heart,  and  diffused  itself  like  a  glow;  her  cold  hands 
grew  warm,  her  life  seemed  to  flow  more  freely.  But 
soon  the  realization  followed  that  now  she  must  arm  her 
self  in  new  guise  to  resist  the  new  temptation.  She  must 
keep  her  promise.  She  would  marry  East,  if  he  wished 
it,  though  the  earth  were  moved,  and  the  hills  carried 
into  the  midst  of  the  sea.  And  Heathcote  would  be  far 
happier  with  Helen;  his  feeling  for  herself  was  but  a 
fancy,  and  would  pass,  as  no  doubt  many  other  fancies 
had  passed.  In  addition,  Helen  loved  him ;  her  life  was 
bound  up  in  him,  whether  he  knew  it  or  no.  Helen  had 
been  her  kindest  friend ;  if  all  else  were  free,  this  alone 
would  hold  her.  "But  I  am  glad,  glad  to  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  that  he  did  care  for  me,  even  if  only  a  little," 
she  thought,  as  she  watched  the  hills.  "My  task  is  now 


ANNE.  321 

to  protect  him  from  himself,  and — and  what  is  harder, 
myself  from  myself.  I  will  do  it.  But  I  am  glad— I  am 
glad."  Quieted,  she  waited  for  his  return. 

When  he  came  she  would  speak  so  calmly  and  firmly 
that  his  words  would  be  quelled.  He  would  recognize  the 
uselessness  of  further  speech.  When  he  came.  But  he 
did  not  come.  The  hills  changed  to  cliffs,  the  cliffs  to 
mountains,  the  long  miles  grew  into  thirty  and  forty,  yet 
he  did  not  return.  He  had  risen,  but  did  not  come  to  her ; 
he  had  gone  forward  to  the  smoking-car.  He  had,  in 
truth,  caught  the  reflection  of  her  face  in  a  mirror,  and 
decided  not  to  come.  It  is  not  difficult  to  make  resolu 
tions  ;  there  is  a  fervidness  in  the  work  that  elevates  and 
strengthens  the  heart.  But  once  made,  one  needs  to  ex 
ercise  them,  otherwise  they  grow  cold  and  torpid  on  one's 
hands. 

Jeanne- Armande,  finding  herself  alone,  barricaded  her 
seat  with  basket  and  umbrella,  so  as  to  be  able  to  return 
thither  (and  perhaps  have  other  conversations),  and  came 
across  to  Anne. 

"A  most  accomplished  gentleman!"  she  said,  with  ef 
fusion.  "  Mrs.  Lorriiigton,  charming  as  she  is,  is  yet  to 
be  herself  congratulated.  He  has  even  been  in  Berri," 
she  added,  as  though  that  was  a  chief  accomplishment, 
"  and  may  have  beheld  with  his  own  eyes  the  chateau  of 
my  ancestors."  Rarely  indeed  did  Jeanne- Armande  al 
lude  to  this  chateau:  persons  with  chateau  ancestors 
might  be  required  to  sustain  expenses  not  in  accordance 
with  her  well-arranged  rules. 

"Where  does  this  train  stop  ?"  asked  Anne,  with  some 
irrelevance  as  to  the  chateau. 

' '  At  Centerville,  for  what  they  call  dinner ;  and  at 
Stringhampton  Junction  in  the  evening.  It  is  the  fast 
express." 

"Do  we  meet  an  eastward-bound  train  at  Center 
ville  ?" 

"I  presume  we  do;  but  we  shall  not  get  out,  so  the 
crowd  in  the  dining-room  will  not  incommode  us.  The 
contents  of  my  basket  will  be  sufficient.  But  if  you  wish 
a  cup  of  coffee,  it  will  be  eight  cents.  There  is  a  species 

21 


322  ANNE. 

of  German  cake  at  Centerville,  remarkably  filling  for  the 
price.  They  bring-  them  through  the  cars." 

"  What  time  is  it  now  ?" 

"About  half  past  twelve ;  we  reach  Centerville  at  two. 
What  age  has  Monsieur  Heathcote,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Thirty- two  or  thirty-three,  I  believe." 

"A  gentleman  of  independent  fortune,  I  presume  ?" 

"He  is  independent,  but,  I  was  told,  not  rich." 

"The  position  I  should  have  supposed,"  said  mademoi 
selle.  "What  penetrating  eyes  he  possesses;  penetrat 
ing,  yet  soft.  There  is  something  in  his  glance,  coming 
from  under  those  heavy  brows,  which  is  particularly  mov 
ing — one  might  almost  say  tender.  Have  you  observed 
it?" 

Yes,  Anne  had  observed  it. 

Jeanne- Armande,  protected  as  she  supposed  from  in 
discretion  by  the  engagement  to  the  charming  Mrs.  Lor- 
rington,  rambled  on,  enjoying  the  real  pleasure  of  being 
sentimental  and  romantic,  without  risk,  cost,  or  loss  of 
time,  on  this  eventful  day. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Mr.  Dexter,  mademoi 
selle,  "  said  Anne,  making  an  effort  to  turn  the  tide.  ' '  He 
is  considered  handsome,  and  he  lias  a  large  fortune — " 

"But  not  inherited,  I  presume,"  interposed  mademoi 
selle,  grandly.  "  Mr.  Heathcote,  as  I  understand,  lives 
upon  his  paternal  revenues." 

If  Heathcote  had  been  there,  he  might  have  answered 
that  he  tried  to,  but  never  succeeded.  He  was  not  there, 
however;  and  Anne  could  only  reply  that  she  did  not 
know. 

"  He  has  undoubtedly  that  air,"  said  Jeanne- Armande, 
faithful  to  her  distinguished  escort,  and  waving  away 
all  diversions  in  favor  of  unknown  Dexters.  ' l  Do  you 
know  when  they  are  to  be  married  ?" 

"No,"  said  Anne,  drearily,  looking  now  at  the  cliffs 
which  bounded  the  narrow  valley  through  which  the 
train  was  rushing. 

"Let  us  hope  that  it  will  be  soon;  for  life  is  short  at 
best.  Though  not  romantic  by  nature,  I  own  I  should 
be  pleased  to  possess  a  small  portion  of  the  wedding  cake 


ANNE.  323 

of  that  amiable  pair, "  pursued  Jeanne- Armande,  fixing 
her  eyes  upon  the  suspended  lamp  of  the  car,  lost  in  sen 
timental  reverie. 

"I  think  I  will  buy  a  newspaper,"  said  Anne,  as  the 
train-boy  came  toward  them. 

"Buy  a  paper?  By  no  means,"  said  mademoiselle, 
descending  hastily  to  earth  again.  ' '  I  have  yesterday's 
paper,  which  I  found  on  the  ferry-boat.  It  is  in  good 
order;  I  smoothed  it  out  carefully;  you  can  read  that." 
She  produced  it  from  some  remote  pocket,  and  Anne 
took  refuge  in  its  pages,  while  Jeanne- Armande  closed 
her  eyes  under  the  helmet,  no  doubt  to  meditate  further 
on  the  picture  of  felicity  she  had  called  up. 

Anne  felt  all  the  weariness  of  long  suspense.  It  was 
one  o'clock ;  it  was  half  past  one ;  it  was  nearly  two ;  still 
he  did  not  appear.  Even  mademoiselle  now  roused  her 
self,  looked  at  her  watch,  and  in  her  turn  began  to  ask 
where  he  could  be ;  but  she  had  the  comfort  of  asking  it 
aloud. 

The  speed  was  now  perceptibly  slackened,  and  the 
brakeman  announced  at  the  door:  "  Cen  —  ter  —  ville. 
Twen — timinets  for  dinner,"  in  a  bar  of  music  not  unlike 
a  hoarse  Gregorian  chant.  At  this  instant  Heathcote  en 
tered  from  the  next  car. 

"Ah!  there  he  is,"  said  mademoiselle,  with  satisfac 
tion.  ' '  Do  you  think  he  will  partake  of  a  little  taste  with 
us  ?"  He  joined  them,  and  she  repeated  her  question  in 
the  shape  of  a  modest  allusion  to  the  contents  of  her 
basket. 

"  No,  thanks;  I  shall  go  out  and  walk  up  and  down  to 
breathe  the  air.  But  first,  will  you  not  go  with  me,  and 
see  what  they  have  ?  Perhaps  we  might  find  something 
not  altogether  uneatable." 

Mademoiselle  declined,  with  her  most  gracious  smile. 
She  would  content  herself  with  the  contents  of  her  bas 
ket  ;  but  perhaps  Anne — 

The  eastward-bound  train  was  in,  drawn  up  beside 
them. 

"Yes, "said  Anne,  "I  should  like  to  go."  Then,  as 
soon  as  they  were  in  the  open  air,  ' '  I  only  wish  to  speak 


326  ANNE. 

The  flattered  Frenchwoman  consented,  and  as  he  fol 
lowed  her  he  gave  Anne  a  glance  which  said,  "Check." 
And  Anne  felt  that  it  was  "check"  indeed. 

He  had  no  intention  of  troubling  her ;  he  would  give 
her  time  to  grow  tired. 

But  she  was  tired  already. 

At  last,  however,  he  did  come.  They  were  in  plain 
sight  now,  people  were  sitting  behind  them ;  she  could 
not  childishly  refuse  to  let  him  take  the  vacant  place  be 
side  her.  But  at  least,  she  thought,  his  words  must  be 
guarded,  or  people  behind  would  make  out  what  he  said, 
even  from  the  motion  of  his  lips. 

But  Heathcote  never  cared  for  people. 

"Dear, "he  said,  bending  toward  her,  "I  am  so  glad 
to  be  with  you  again !"  After  all,  he  had  managed  to 
place  himself  so  that  by  supporting  his  cheek  with  his 
hand,  the  people  behind  could  not  see  his  face  at  all, 
much  less  make  out  what  he  said. 

Anne  did  not  reply. 

*  *  Won't  you  even  look  at  me  ?  I  must  content  myself, 
then,  with  your  profile." 

"You  are  ungenerous,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  as  low 
as  his  own.  "It  will  end  in  my  feeling  a  contempt  for 
you." 

"And  I— never  felt  so  proud  of  myself  in  all  my  life 
before.  For  what  am  I  doing  ?  Throwing  away  all  my 
fixed  ideas  of  what  life  should  be,  for  your  sake,  and  glad 
to  do  it." 

"Mr.  Heathcote,  will  you  never  believe  that  I  am  in 
earnest  ?" 

"I  know  very  well  that  you  are  in  earnest.  But  I 
shall  be  equally  in  earnest  in  breaking  down  the  bar 
riers  between  us.  When  that  Western  lover  of  yours  is 
married  to  some  one  else,  and  Mrs.  Lorrington  likewise, 
then  shall  we  not  be  free  ?" 

"  Helen  will  never  marry  any  one  else." 

"Why  do  you  not  say  that  Mr.  Pronando  never  will  ?" 

"Because  I  am  not  sure, "she  answered,  with  sad  hu 
mility. 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  him  all  that  has  happened  ?" 


ANNE.  32? 

"Yes." 

"  And  leave  the  decision  to  him?" 

"Yes." 

"You  will  put  yourself  in  a  false  position,  then.  If 
you  really  intend  to  marry  him,  it  would  be  safer  to  tell 
liim  nothing, "  said  Heathcote,  in  an  impartial  tone.  ' '  No 
man  likes  to  hear  that  sort  of  thing,  even  if  his  wife  tells 
it  herself.  Though  he  may  know  she  has  loved  some 
one  else,  he  does  not  care  to  have  it  stated  in  words  ; 
he  would  rather  leave  it  disembodied."  Anne  was  look 
ing  at  him ;  a  sudden  pain,  which  she  did  not  have  time 
to  conceal,  showed  itself  in  her  face  as  he  spoke.  "You 
darling  child !"  said  Heathcote,  laughing.  "See  how  you 
look  when  I  even  speak  of  your  marrying  any  one  save 
me!" 

She  shrank  back,  feeling  the  justice  of  his  inference. 
Her  resolution  remained  unchanged;  but  she  could  not 
withstand  entirely  the  personal  power  of  his  presence. 
She  gazed  at  the  afternoon  sunshine  striking  the  mount 
ain-peaks,  and  asked  herself  how  she  could  bear  the  long 
hours  that  still  lay  between  her  and  the  time  of  release 
— release  from  this  narrow  space  where  she  must  sit  be 
side  him,  and  feel  the  dangerous  subtle  influence  of  his 
voice  and  eyes.  Then  suddenly  an  idea  came  to  her, 
like  a  door  opening  silently  before  a  prisoner  in  a  cell. 
She  kept  her  face  turned  toward  the  window,  while  rap 
idly  and  with  a  beating  heart  she  went  over  its  possibili 
ties.  Yes,  it  could  be  done.  It  should  be  done.  With 
inward  excitement  she  tried  to  arrange  the  details. 

Heathcote  had  fallen  into  silence ;  but  he  seemed  quite 
content  to  sit  there  beside  her  without  speaking.  At  last, 
having  decided  upon  her  course,  and  feeling  nervously 
unable  to  endure  his  wordless  presence  longer,  she  began 
to  talk  of  Caryl's,  Miss  Vanhorn,  mademoiselle,  the  half- 
house — anything  and  everything  which  possessed  no 
real  importance,  and  did  not  bear  upon  the  subject  be 
tween  them.  He  answered  her  in  his  brief  fashion.  If 
she  wished  to  pad  the  dangerous  edges  of  the  day  with  a 
few  safe  conventionalities,  he  had  no  objection ;  women 
would  be  conventional  on  a  raft  in  mid-ocean.  The  aft- 


328  ANNE. 

ernoon  moved  on  toward  sunset.  He  thought  the  con 
test  was  over,  that  although  she  might  still  make  objec 
tion,  at  heart  she  had  yielded;  and  he  was  not  unwilling 
to  rest.  Why  should  they  hurry  ?  The  whole  of  life 
was  before  them. 

As  night  fell,  they  reached  Stringhampton  Junction, 
and  the  great  engine  stopped  again.  The  passengers  hast 
ened  hungrily  into  the  little  supper-room,  and  Heathcote 
urged  mademoiselle  to  accompany  him  thither,  and  taste 
a  cup  of  that  compound  found  at  railway  stations  called 
Japan  tea.  Jeanne -Armande  looked  half  inclined  to 
accept  this  invitation,  but  Anne,  answering  for  both,  said : 
"  No ;  we  have  all  we  need  in  our  basket.  You  can,  how 
ever,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,  send  us  some  tea."  This  de 
cision  being  in  accordance  with  Jeanne -Armande's  own 
rules,  she  did  not  like  to  contravene  it,  in  spite  of  the 
satisfaction  it  would  have  given  her  to  enter  the  supper- 
room  with  her  decorous  brown  glove  reposing  upon  such 
a  coat  sleeve.  Heathcote  bowed,  and  went  out.  Anne 
watched  his  figure  entering  the  doorway  of  the  brightly 
lighted  supper-room,  which  was  separated  by  a  wide  space 
from  the  waiting  train.  Then  she  turned. 

"Mademoiselle,"  she  said,  her  burning  haste  contrast 
ing  with  her  clear  calm  utterance  of  the  moment  before, 
"I  beg  you  to  leave  this  train  with  me  without  one  in 
stant's  delay.  The  peace  of  my  whole  life  depends  upon 
it." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?"  said  the  bewildered  teacher. 

"I  can  not  explain  now;  I  will,  later.  But  if  you 
have  any  regard  for  me,  any  compassion,  come  at  once." 

* '  But  our  bags,  our — 

"I  will  take  them  all." 

"And  our  trunks — they  are  checked  through  to  Val 
ley  City.  Will  there  be  time  to  take  them  off?"  said 
Jeanne-Armaiide,  confusedly.  Then,  with  more  clear 
ness,  "  But  why  should  we  go  at  all  ?  I  have  no  money 
to  spend  on  freaks." 

"This  is  Stringhampton  Junction;  we  can  cross  here 
to  the  northern  road,  as  you  originally  intended, "  explain 
ed  Anne,  rapidly.  "All  the  additional  expense  I  will 


VIT   IS,  OR   SHOULD   BE,  OVER   THERE." 


ANNE.  329 

pay.     Dear  mademoiselle,  have  pity  on  me,  and  come. 
Else  I  shall  go  alone." 

The  voice  was  eloquent ;  Jeanne-Armande  rose.  Anne 
hurried  her  through  the  almost  empty  car  toward  the  rear 
door. 

"  But  where  are  we  going  ?" 

"  Out  of  the  light,''  answered  Anne. 

They  climbed  down  in  the  darkness  on  the  other  side 
of  the  train,  and  Anne  led  the  way  across  the  tracks  at 
random,  until  they  reached  a  safe  country  road-side  be 
yond,  and  felt  the  soft  grass  under  their  feet. 

"Where  are  we  going  ?"  said  the  Frenchwoman  again, 
almost  in  tears.  "Monsieur  Heathcote — what  will  he 
think  of  us  ?" 

"It  is  from  him  I  am  fleeing,"  replied  Anne.  "And 
now  we  must  find  the  cross-road  train.  Do  you  know 
where  it  is  ?" 

"It  is,  or  should  be,  over  there,"  said  Jeanne-Armande, 
waving  her  umbrella  tragically. 

But  she  followed:  the  young  girl  had  turned  leader 
now. 

They  found  the  cross-road  train,  entered,  and  took  their 
seats.  And  then  Anne  feverishly  counted  the  seconds, 
expecting  with  each  one  to  see  Heathcote's  face  at  the 
door.  But  the  little  branch  train  did  not  wait  for  supper ; 
the  few  passengers  were  already  in  their  places,  and  at 
last  the  bell  rang,  and  the  engine  started  northward, 
but  so  slowly  that  Anne  found  herself  leaning  forward, 
as  though  to  hasten  its  speed.  Then  the  wheels  began 
to  turn  more  rapidly— clank,  clank,  past  the  switches; 
rumble,  rumble,  over  the  bridge ;  by  the  dark  line  of  the 
wood-pile ;  and  then  onward  into  the  dark  defiles  of  the 
mountains.  They  were  away. 


330  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"How  heavy  do  I  journey  on  the  way 

When  what  I  seek,  my  weary  travel's  end, 
Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  say, 

'  Thus  far  the  miles  are  measured  from  my  friend.' " 

— Shakspeare's  Sonnets. 

IN  the  mean  time  Ward  Heathcote  was  in  the  supper- 
room.  After  selecting-  the  best  that  the  little  country 
station  afforded,  and  feeing  a  servant  to  take  it  across 
to  the  train,  he  sat  down  to  eat  a  nondescript  meal  with 
some  hunger. 

The  intelligent  mulatto  boy  who  carried  the  waiter 
consumed  as  many  minutes  as  possible  in  his  search  for 
' '  the  two  ladies  in  that  car,  on  the  right-hand  side  oppo 
site  the  fourth  window,"  who,  plainly,  were  not  there. 
He  had  the  fee  in  his  pocket,  there  would  not  be  anoth 
er,  and  the  two  ' '  suppers"  were  paid  for.  It  was  decided 
ly  a  case  for  delay.  He  waited,  therefore,  until  the  warn 
ing  bell  rang,  and  he  was  then  encountered  in  hot  haste 
hurrying  to  meet  his  patron,  the  waiter  still  balanced 
on  his  shoulder. 

"No  ladies  there,  sah.  Looked  everywhere  fur  'em, 
sah."  - 

There  was  no  time  for  further  parley.  Heathcote 
hurried  forward,  and  the  train  started.  They  must  be 
there,  of  course ;  probably  the  cars  had  been  changed  or 
moved  forward  while  the  train  was  waiting.  But  al 
though  he  went  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  file  of  car 
riages,  he  found  no  one.  They  were  under  full  headway 
now ;  the  great  engine  did  not  need  gradual  beginnings. 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  questions  of  the  pass 
engers  whose  faces  he  remembered  in  the  same  car ;  they 
would  open  upon  him  a  battery  of  curiosity  in  return. 
He  went  to  the  rear  door,  opened  it,  and  looked  out ;  the 
two  grime-encircled  eyes  of  a  brakeman  met  his  gravely. 


ANNE.  331 

He  stepped  outside,  closed  the  door,  and  entered  into  con 
versation  with  the  eyes. 

Yes,  he  seed  two  ladies  get  off ;  they  come  out  this  here 
end  door,  and  climbed  down  on  the  wrong1  side.  Seem 
ed  to  he  \n  a  hurry.  Didn't  know  where  they  went. 
Called  after  'em  that  that  warn't  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  the  young  one  said,  "Thanks, "but  didn't  say 
no  more.  Was  they  left  behind  ?  No,  train  didn't  stop 
this  side  of  Valley  City;  but  the  gentleman  could  tele 
graph  back,  and  they  could  come  on  safe  and  sound  in 
the  morning  express.  'Twarn't  likely  they'd  gone  north 
by  the  little  branch  road,  was  it  ?  Branch  connects  a,t 
Stringhampton  for  the  Northern  Line. 

But  this  suggestion  made  no  impression  upon  Heath- 
cote.  Mademoiselle  lived  in  Valley  City;  he  had  seen 
her  tickets  for  Valley  City.  No,  it  was  some  unlooked- 
for  mistake  or  accident.  He  gave  the  brakeman  a  dollar, 
and  went  back  into  the  car.  But  everything  wTas  gone — 
bags,  shawls,  basket,  cloak,  bundle,  and  umbrella,  all  the 
miscellaneous  possessions  with  which  mademoiselle  was 
accustomed  to  travel;  there  had  been,  then,  deliberation 
enough  to  collect  them  all.  He  sat  down  perplexed,  and 
gradually  the  certainty  stole  coldly  over  him  that  Anne 
had  fled.  It  must  be  this. 

For  it  was  no  freak  of  the  Frenchwoman's;  she  had 
been  too  much  pleased  with  his  escort  to  forego  it  willing 
ly.  He  was  deeply  hurt.  And  deeply  surprised.  Had 
he  not  followed  her  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  ?  (This 
was  not  true,  but  for  the  moment  he  thought  it  was.) 
Was  this  a  proper  response  ? 

Never  before  had  he  received  such  a  rebuff,  and  after 
brooding  over  it  an  hour  in  the  dismal  car,  it  grew  into 
an  insult.  His  deeper  feelings  were  aroused.  Under  his 
indolence  he  had  a  dominant  pride,  even  arrogance  of 
nature,  which  would  have  astonished  many  who  thought 
they  knew  him.  Whether  his  words  had  or  had  not  been 
the  result  of  impulse,  now  that  they  were  spoken,  they 
were  worthy  of  at  least  respect.  He  grew  more  angry  as 
the  minutes  passed,  for  he  was  so  deeply  hurt  that  he  took 
refuge  in  anger.  To  be  so  thwarted  and  played  upon 


332  ANNE. 

— he,  a  man  of  the  world — by  a  young-  girl;  a  young 
girl  regarding  whom,  too,  there  had  sprung  up  in  his 
heart  almost  the  only  real  faith  of  his  life !  He  had  be 
lieved  in  that  face,  had  trusted  those  violet  eyes,  he  did 
not  know  how  unquestioiiingly  until  now.  And  then, 
feeling  something  very  like  moisture  coming  into  his 
own  eyes,  he  rose,  angry  over  his  weakness,  went  for 
ward  to  the  smoking  car,  lit  a  cigar,  and  savagely  tried 
to  think  of  other  things.  A  pretty  fool  he  was  to  be  on 
a  night  train  in  the  heart  of  Pennsylvania,  going  no  one 
knew  whither. 

But,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  mind  stole  back  to  Anne. 
She  was  so  different  from  the  society  women  with  whom 
he  had  always  associated  ;  she  had  so  plainly  loved 
him.  Poor,  remorseful,  conscientious,  struggling,  faith 
ful  heart !  Why  had  she  fled  from  him  ?  It  did  not  oc 
cur  to  him  that  she  was  fleeing  from  herself. 

He  arrived  at  Valley  City  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  had 
the  very  room  with  gaudy  carpet  he  had  pictured  to  him 
self.  The  next  morning,  disgusted  with  everything  and 
out  of  temper  as  he  was,  he  yet  so  far  postponed  his  re 
turn  journey  as  to  make -inquiries  concerning  schools  for 
girls — one  in  particular,  in  which  a  certain  Mademoiselle 
Pitre  had  been  teaching  French  and  music  for  several 
years.  The  clerk  thought  it  must  be  the  ' '  Young  Ladies' 
Seminary."  Heathcote  took  down  the  address  of  this  es 
tablishment,  ordered  a  carriage,  and  drove  thither,  in 
quiring  at  the  door  if  Mademoiselle  Pitre  had  arrived. 

There  was  no  such  person  there,  the  maid  answered. 
No ;  he  knew  that  she  had  not  yet  arrived.  But  when 
was  she  expected  ? 

The  maid  (who  admired  the  stranger)  did  not  take  it 
upon  herself  to  deny  his  statement,  but  went  away,  and 
returned  with  the  principal,  Professor  Adolphus  Bittin- 
ger.  Professor  Bittinger  was  not  acquainted  with  Made 
moiselle  Pitre.  Their  instructress  in  the  French  language 
was  named  Blanchard,  and  was  already  there.  Heath- 
cote  then  asked  if  there  were  any  other  young  ladies' 
seminaries  in  Valley  City,  and  was  told  (loftily)  that  there 
were  not.  No  schools  where  French  was  taught  ?  There 


ANNE.  333 

might  be,  the  professor  thought,  one  or  two  small  estab 
lishments  for  clay  scholars.  The  visitor  wrote  down  the 
new  addresses,  and  drove  away  to  visit  four  day  schools 
in  succession,  sending  a  ripple  of  curiosity  down  the 
benches,  and  exciting  a  nutter  in  the  breasts  of  four 
French  teachers,  who  came  in  person  to  answer  the  inqui 
ries  of  monsieur.  One  of  them,  a  veteran  in  the  profes 
sion,  who  had  spent  her  life  in  asking  about  the  loaf 
made  by  the  distant  one-eyed  relative  of  the  baker,  an 
swered  decidedly  that  there  was  no  such  person  in  Val 
ley  City.  "Monsieur"  was  beginning  to  think  so  him 
self;  but  having  now  the  fancy  to  exhaust  all  the  possi 
bilities,  he  visited  the  infant  schools,  and  a  private  class, 
and  at  two  o'clock  returned  to  the  hotel,  having  seen  al 
together  about  five  hundred  young  Americans  in  frocks, 
from  five  years  old  to  seventeen. 

According  to  the  statement  of  the  little  shop-keeper  at 
Lancaster,  mademoiselle  had  been  teaching  in  Valley  City 
for  a  number  of  years :  there  remained,  then,  the  chance 
that  she  was  in  a  private  family  as  governess.  Heathcote 
lingered  in  Valley  City  three  days  longer  on  this  gover 
ness  chance.  He  ate  three  more  dinners  in  the  comfort 
less  dining-room,  slept  three  more  nights  in  the  gaudy 
bedroom,  and  was  at  the  railway  station  five  times  each 
day,  to  wit,  at  the  hours  when  the  trains  arrived  from  the 
east.  If  they  had  waited  at  Stringhampton  until  he  had 
had  time  to  return  to  New  York,  they  would  be  coming  on 
now.  But  no  one  came.  The  fourth  day  opened  with 
dull  gray  rain ;  the  smoke  of  the  manufactories  hung  over 
the  valley  like  a  pall.  In  the  dining-room  there  was  a 
sour  odor  of  fresh  paint,  and  from  the  window  he  could  see 
only  a  line  of  hacks,  the  horses  standing  in  the  rain  with 
drooping  heads,  while  the  drivers,  in  a  row  against  an  op 
posite  wall,  looked,  in  their  long  oil-skin  coats,  as  though 
they  were  drawn  up  there  in  their  black  shrouds  to  be 
shot.  In  a  fit  of  utter  disgust  he  rang  for  his  bill,  or 
dered  a  carriage,  and  drove  to  the  station :  he  would  take 
the  morning  train  for  New  York. 

Yet  when  the  carriage  was  dismissed,  he  let  the  ex 
press  roll  away  without  him,  while  he  walked  to  and  fro, 


334  ANNE. 

waiting  for  an  incoming-  train.  The  train  was  behind  time ; 
when  it  did  come,  there  was  no  one  among-  its  passengers 
whom  he  had  ever  seen  before.  With  an  anathema  u  pon 
his  own  folly,  he  took  the  day  accommodation  eastward. 
He  would  return  to  New  York  without  any  more  senseless 
delays.  And  then  at  Stringhampton  Junction  he  was  the 
only  person  who  alighted.  His  idea  was  to  make  in 
quiries  there.  He  spent  two  hours  of  that  afternoon  in  the 
rain,  under  a  borrowed  umbrella,  and  three  alone  in  the 
waiting-room.  No  such  persons  as  he  described  had  been 
seen  at  Stringhampton,  and  as  the  settlement  was  small, 
and  possessed  of  active  curiosity,  there  remained  no  room 
for  doubt.  There  was  the  chance  that  they  had  followed 
him  to  Valley  City  an  hour  later  on  a  freight  train  with 
car  attached,  in  which  case  he  had  missed  them.  And 
there  was  the  other  chance  that  they  had  gone  northward 
by  the  branch  road.  But  why  should  they  go  northward  ? 
They  lived  in  Valley  City,  or  near  there;  their  tickets 
were  marked  "Valley  City."  The  branch  led  to  the 
Northern  Line,  by  which  one  could  reach  Chicago,  St. 
Louis,  Omaha,  the  wilderness,  but  not  Valley  City.  The 
gentleman  might  go  up  as  far  as  the  Northern  Line,  and 
inquire  of  the  station  agent  there,  suggested  the  String 
hampton  ticket-seller,  who  balanced  a  wooden  tooth-pick 
in  his  mouth  lightly,  like  a  cigarette.  But  the  gentle 
man,  who  had  already  been  looking  up  the  narrow  line  of 
wet  rails  under  his  umbrella  for  an  hour,  regarded  the 
speaker  menacingly,  and  turned  away  with  the  ironical 
comment  in  his  own  mind  that  the  Northern  Line  and 
its  station  agent  might  be — what  amounted  to  Calvinized 
— before  he  sought  them. 

The  night  express  came  thundering  along  at  midnight. 
It  bore  away  the  visitor.  Stringhampton  saw  him  no 
more. 

In  the  mean  time  Anne  and  her  companion  had  ridden 
on  during  the  night,  and  the  younger  woman  had  ex 
plained  to  the  elder  as  well  as  she  could  the  cause  of 
her  sudden  action.  ' '  It  was  not  right  that  I  should  hear 
or  that  he  should  speak  such  words." 

"He  had  but  little  time  in  which  to  speak  them," 


ANNE.  335 

said  Jeanne-Armande,  stiffly.  ' '  He  spent  most  of  the 
day  with  me.  But,  in  any  case,  why  run  away  ?  Why 
could  you  not  have  repelled  him  quietly,  and  with  the 
proper  dignity  of  a  lady,  and  yet  remained  where  you 
were,  comfortably,  and  allowed  me  to  remain  as  well  ?" 

"I  could  not,"  said  Anne.  Then,  after  a  moment, 
"Dear  mademoiselle,"  she  added,  "do  not  ask  me  any 
more  questions.  I  have  done  wrong,  and  I  have  been 
very,  very  unhappy.  It  is  over  now,  and  with  your  help 
I  hope  to  have  a  long  winter  of  quiet  and  patient  labor. 
I  am  grateful  to  you;  you  do  not  know  how  grateful. 
Save  those  far  away  on  the  island,  you  seem  to  me  now 
the  only  friend  I  have  on  earth."  Her  voice  broke. 

Jeanne-Armande's  better  feelings  were  touched.  ' '  My 
poor  child !"  she  said,  pityingly. 

And  then  Anne  laid  her  head  down  upon  the  French 
woman's  shoulder,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

They  reached  Weston  the  next  day.  The  journey 
was  ended. 

Mademoiselle  selected  new  lodgings,  in  a  quarter  which 
overlooked  the  lake.  She  never  occupied  the  same  rooms 
two  seasons  in  succession,  lest  she  should  be  regarded  as 
"an  old  friend,"  and  expected  to  make  concessions  ac 
cordingly.  On  the  second  day  she  called  ceremoniously 
upon  the  principal  of  the  school,  sending  in  her  old-fash 
ioned  glazed  card,  with  her  name  engraved  upon  it,  to 
gether  with  a  minute  ' '  Paris"  in  one  corner.  To  this  im 
portant  personage  she  formally  presented  her  candidate, 
endowing  her  with  so  large  a  variety  of  brilliant  qualities 
and  accomplishments  that  the  candidate  was  filled  with 
astonishment,  and  came  near  denying  them,  had  she  not 
been  prevented  by  the  silent  meaning  pressure  of  a  gaiter 
that  divined  her  intention,  and  forbade  the  revelation. 
Fortunately  an  under-teacher  was  needed,  and  half  an 
hour  later  Anne  went  away,  definitely,  although  at  a  very 
small  salary,  engaged. 

She  went  directly  home,  locked  her  door,  took  paper 
and  pen,  and  began  to  write.  "Dear  Rast,"  she  wrote. 
Then,  with  a  flood  of  remorseful  affection,  "Dear,  dear 
Hast."  Her  letter  was  a  long  one,  without  break  or  hes- 


336  ANNE. 

itation.  She  told  him  all  save  names,  and  asked  him  to 
forgive  her.  If  he  still  loved  her  and  wished  her  to  be 
his  wife,  she  was  ready ;  in  truth,  she  seemed  almost  to 
urge  the  marriage,  that  is,  if  he  still  loved  her.  When 
the  letter  was  completed  she  went  out  and  placed  it  in  a 
letter-box  with  her  own  hands,  coming  home  with  a  con 
science  more  free.  She  had  done  what  she  could.  The 
letter  was  sent  to  the  island,  where  East  still  was  when 
she  had  heard  from  him  the  last  time  before  leaving 
Caryl's ;  for  only  seven  days  had  passed  since  then. 
They  seemed  seven  years. 

A  day  later  she  wrote  to  Miss  Lois,  telling  of  Miss  Van- 
horn's  action,  her  new  home  and  change  of  position.  She 
said  nothing  of  her  letter  to  East  or  the  story  it  told ;  she 
left  that  to  him  to  relate  or  not  as  he  pleased.  In  all 
things  he  should  be  now  her  master. 

When  this  second  letter  was  sent,  she  asked  herself 
whether  she  could  write  to  Helen.  But  instantly  the 
feeling  came  surging  over  her  that  she  could  not.  In  ad 
dition  there  was  the  necessity  of  keeping  her  new  abode 
hidden.  No  one  knew  were  mademoiselle  was,  and  the 
younger  woman  had  now  the  benefit  of  that  carefully 
woven  mystery.  She  was  safe.  She  must  not  disturb 
that  safety. 

To  one  other  person  she  felt  that  she  must  write,  name 
ly,  Miss  Vanhorn.  Harsh  as  had  been  the  treatment  she 
had  received,  it  came  from  her  mother's  aunt.  She 
wrote,  therefore,  briefly,  stating  that  she  had  obtained  a 
teacher's  place,  but  without  saying  where  it  was.  This 
letter,  inclosed  in  another  envelope,  was  sent  to  a  friend 
of  Jeanne- Arrnande  in  Boston,  and  mailed  from  that  city. 
Anne  had  written  that  a  letter  sent  to  the  Boston  address, 
which  she  inclosed,  would  be  immediately  forwarded  to 
her.  But  no  reply  came.  Old  Katharine  never  forgave. 

The  school  opened ;  the  young  teacher  had  a  class  of 
new  scholars.  To  her  also  were  given  the  little  brothers 
who  were  allowed  to  mingle  with  the  flock  until  they 
reached  the  age  of  eleven,  when  they  were  banished  to 
rougher  trials  elsewhere ;  to  these  little  boys  she  taught 
Latin  grammar,  and  the  various  pursuits  in  the  imper- 


ANNE.  337 

feet  tense  of  those  two  well-known  grammar  worthies, 
Caius  and  Balbus.  Jeanne-Armande  had  not  failed  to 
proclaim  far  and  wide  her  candidate's  qualifications  as  to 
vocal  music.  "A  pupil  of  Belzini,"  she  remarked,  with 
a  stately  air,  "was  not  often  to  be  obtained  so  far  inland." 
The  principal,  a  clear-headed  Western  woman,  with  a 
keen  sense  of  humor,  perceived  at  once  (although  smiling 
at  it)  the  value  of  the  phrase.  It  was  soon  in  circulation. 
And  it  was  understood  that  at  Christmas-time  the  pupil 
of  Belzini,  who  was  not  often  to  be  obtained  so  far  inland, 
would  assume  charge  of  the  music  class,  and  lift  it  to  a 
plane  of  Italian  perfection  hitherto  unattained. 

The  autumn  opened.  Anne,  walking  on  the  lake  shore 
at  sunset,  saw  the  vessels  steal  out  from  port  one  by  one, 
and  opening  white  sails,  glide  away  in  the  breeze  of 
evening  silently  as  spirits.  Then  came  the  colored  leaves. 
The  town,  even  in  its  meanest  streets,  was  now  so  beau 
tiful  that  the  wonder  was  that  the  people  did  not  leave 
their  houses,  and  live  out-of-doors  altogether,  merely  to 
gaze  ;  every  leaf  was  a  flower,  and  brighter  than  the 
brightest  blossom.  Then  came  a  wild  storm,  tearing  the 
splendor  from  the  branches  in  a  single  night ;  in  the 
morning,  November  rain  was  falling,  and  all  was  deso 
late  and  bare.  But  after  this,  the  last  respite,  came  In 
dian  summer. 

If  there  is  a  time  when  the  American  of  to-day  recalls 
the  red-skinned  men  who  preceded  him  in  this  land  he 
now  calls  his  own,  it  is  during  these  few  days  of  stillness 
and  beauty  which  bear  the  name  of  the  vanished  race. 
Work  is  over  in  the  fields,  they  are  ready  for  their  win 
ter  rest ;  the  leaves  are  gone,  the  trees  are  ready  too. 
The  last  red  apple  is  gathered  ;  men  and  the  squirrels 
together  have  gleaned  the  last  nut.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  be  done;  and  he  who  with  a  delicate  imagination 
walks  abroad,  or  drives  slowly  along  country  roads,  finds 
himself  thinking,  in  the  stillness,  of  those  who  roved  over 
this  same  ground  not  many  years  ago,  and  tardily  gath 
ering  in  at  this  season  their  small  crops  of  corn  beside 
the  rivers,  gave  to  the  beautiful  golden-purple-hued  days 
the  name  they  bear.  Through  the  naked  woods  he  sees. 

22 


338  ANNE- 

them  stealing,  bow  in  hand ;  on  the  stream  he  sees  their 
birch-bark  canoes  ;  the  smoke  in  the  atmosphere  must 
surely  rise  from  their  hidden  camp  fires.  They  have 
come  back  to  their  old  haunts  from  the  happy  hunting 
grounds  for  these  few  golden  days.  Is  it  not  the  Indian 
summer  ?  The  winter  came  early,  with  whirling  snow 
followed  by  bitter  cold.  Ice  formed ;  navigation  was  over 
until  spring.  Anne  had  heard  from  Dr.  Gaston  and  Miss 
Lois,  but  not  from  East.  For  Rast  had  gone ;  he  had  start 
ed  on  his  preliminary  journey  through  the  western  coun 
try,  where  he  proposed  to  engage  in  business  enterprises, 
although  their  nature  remained  as  yet  vague.  The  chap 
lain  wrote  that  a  letter  addressed  to  Erastus  in  her  hand 
writing  had  been  brought  to  him  the  day  after  the  youth's 
departure,  and  that  he  had  sent  it  to  the  frontier  town  which 
was  to  be  his  first  stopping-place.  Erastus  had  written 
to  her  the  day  before  his  departure,  but  the  letter  had  of 
course  gone  to  Caryl's.  Miss  Vanhorn,  without  doubt, 
would  forward  it  to  her  niece.  The  old  man  wrote  with 
an  effort  to  appear  cheerful,  but  he  confessed  that  he 
missed  his  two  children  sadly.  The  boys  were  well,  and 
Angelique  was  growing  pretty.  In  another  year  it  would 
be  better  that  she  should  be  with  her  sister ;  it  was  some 
what  doubtful  whether  Miss  Lois  understood  the  child. 

Miss  Lois's  letter  was  emphatic,  beginning  and  ending 
with  her  opinion  of  Miss  Vanhorn  in  the  threefold  char 
acter  of  grandaunt,  Christian,  and  woman.  She  was 
able  to  let  out  her  feelings  at  last,  unhindered  by  the  now- 
withdrawn  allowance.  The  old  bitter  resentment  against 
the  woman  who  had  slighted  William  Douglas  found 
vent,  and  the  characterization  was  withering  and  pictur 
esque.  When  she  had  finished  the  arraignment,  trial, 
and  execution,  at  least  in  words,  she  turned  at  last  to  the 
children ;  and  here  it  was  evident  that  her  pen  paused  and 
went  more  slowly.  The  boys,  she  hoped  (rather  as  a  last 
resort) ,  were  ' '  good-hearted. "  She  had  but  little  trouble, 
comparatively,  with  Tita  now ;  the  child  was  very  attent 
ive  to  her  lessons,  and  had  been  over  to  Pere  Michaux  at 
his  hermitage  almost  every  other  day.  The  boys  went 
sometimes ;  and  Erastus  had  been  kind  enough  to  accorn- 


ANNE.  339 

pany  the  children,  to  see  that  they  were  not  drowned. 
And  then,  dropping  the  irksome  theme,  Miss  Lois  dipped 
her  pen  in  romance,  and  filled  the  remainder  of  her  let 
ter  with  praise  of  golden-haired  Rast,  notsomuchbecau.se 
she  herself  loved  him,  as  because  Anne  did.  For  the  old 
maid  believed  with  her  whole  heart  in  this  young  affec 
tion  which  had  sprung  into  being  under  her  fostering 
care,  and  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  the  two  should 
kneel  together  before  Dr.  Gaston  in  the  little  fort  chapel, 
to  receive  the  solemn  benediction  of  the  marriage  service, 
as  the  happiest  remaining  in  her  life  on  earth.  Anne 
read  the  fervid  words  with  troubled  heart.  If  Rast  felt 
all  that  Miss  Lois  said  he  felt,  if  he  had  borne  as  impa 
tiently  as  Miss  Lois  described  their  present  partial  sepa 
ration,  even  when  he  was  sure  of  her  love,  how  would  he 
suffer  when  he  read  her  letter !  She  looked  forward  fe 
verishly  to  the  arrival  of  his  answer ;  but  none  came.  The 
delay  was  hard  to  bear. 

Dr.  Gaston  wrote  a  second  time.  Rast  had  remained 
but  a  day  at  the  first  town,  and  not  liking  it,  had  gone 
forward.  Not  having  heard  from  Anne,  he  sent,  inclosed 
to  the  chaplain's  care,  a  letter  for  her.  With  nervous 
haste  she  opened  it ;  but  it  contained  nothing  save  an  ac 
count  of  his  journey,  with  a  description  of  the  frontier 
village — "shanties,  drinking  saloons,  tin  cans,  and  a 
grave-yard  already.  This  will  never  do  for  a  home  for  us. 
I  shall  push  on  farther. "  The  tone  of  the  letter  was  affec 
tionate,  as  sure  as  ever  of  her  love.  Rast  had  always 
been  sure  of  that.  She  read  the  pages  sadly ;  it  seemed 
as  if  she  was  willfully  deceiving  him.  Where  was  her  let 
ter,  the  letter  that  told  all  ?  She  wrote  to  the  postmaster 
of  the  first  town,  requesting  him  to  return  it.  After  some 
delay,  she  received  answer  that  it  had  been  sent  westward 
to  another  town,  which  the  person  addressed,  namely, 
Erastus  Pronando,  had  said  should  be  his  next  stopping- 
place.  But  a  second  letter  from  Rast,  sent  also  to  the 
chaplain's  care,  had  mentioned  passing  through  that  very 
town  without  stopping — "it  was  such  an  infernal  den"; 
and  again  Anne  wrote,  addressing  the  second  postmaster, 
and  asking  for  the  letter.  This  postmaster  replied,  after 


340  ANNE. 

some  tardiness,  owing  to  his  conflicting  engagements  as 
politician,  hunter,  and  occasionally  miner,  that  the  letter 
described  had  been  forwarded  to  the  Dead-letter  Office. 
This  correspondence  occupied  October  and  November; 
and  during  this  time  Hast  was  still  roaming  through  the 
West,  writing  frequently,  but  sending  no  permanent  ad 
dress.  Now  rumors  of  a  silver  mine  attracted  him ;  now 
it  was  a  scheme  for  cattle-raising ;  now  speculation  in  lands 
along  the  line  of  the  coming  railway  It  was  impossible 
to  follow  him — and  in  truth  he  did  not  wish  to  be  follow 
ed.  He  was  tasting  his  first  liberty.  He  meant  to  look 
around  the  world  awhile  before  choosing  his  home :  not 
long,  only  awhile.  Still,  awhile. 

The  chaplain  added  a  few  lines  of  his  own  when  he 
sent  these  letters  to  Anne.  Winter  had  seized  them; 
they  were  now  fast  fettered ;  the  mail  came  over  the  ice. 
Miss  Lois  was  kind,  and  sometimes  came  up  to  regulate 
his  housekeeping;  but  nothing  went  as  formerly.  His 
coffee  was  seldom  good ;  and  he  found  himself  growing 
peevish — at  least  his  present  domestic,  a  worthy  widow 
named  McGrlathery,  had  remarked  upon  it.  But  Anne 
must  not  think  the  domestic  was  in  fault ;  he  had  reason 
to  believe  that  she  meant  well  even  when  she  addressed 
him  on  the  subject  of  his  own  short-comings.  And  here 
the  chaplain's  old  humor  peeped  through,  as  he  added, 
quaintly,  that  poor  Mistress  McGlathery's  health  was  far 
from  strong,  she  being  subject  to  "inward  tremblings," 
which  tremblings  she  had  several  times  described  to  him 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  while  he  had  as  often  recom 
mended  peppermint  and  ginger,  but  without  success ;  on 
the  contrary,  she  always  went  away  with  a  motion  of  the 
skirts  and  a  manner  as  to  closing  the  door  which,  the 
chaplain  thought,  betokened  offense.  Anne  smiled  over 
these  letters,  and  then  sighed.  If  she  could  only  be  with 
him  again — with  them  all !  She  dreamed  at  night  of  the 
old  man  in  his  arm-chair,  of  Miss  Lois,  of  the  boys,  of  Tita 
curled  in  her  furry  corner,  which  she  had  transferred,  in 
spite  of  Miss  Lois's  remonstrances,  to  the  sitting-room  of 
the  church-house.  Neither  Tita  nor  Pere  Michaux  had 
written ;  she  wondered  over  their  new  silence. 


ANNE.  341 

Anne's  pupils  had,  of  course,  exhaustively  weighed 
and  sifted  the  new  teacher,  and  had  decided  to  like  her. 
Some  of  them  decided  to  adore  her,  and  expressed  their 
adoration  in  bouquets,  autograph  albums,  and  various 
articles  in  card-board  supposed  to  be  of  an  ornamental 
nature.  They  watched  her  guardedly,  and  were  jeal 
ous  of  every  one  to  whom  she  spoke;  she  little  knew 
what  a  net-work  of  plots,  observation,  mines  and  coun 
termines,  surrounded  her  as  patiently  she  toiled  through 
each  long  monotonous  day.  These  adorations  of  school 
girls,  although  but  unconscious  rehearsals  of  the  future, 
are  yet  real  while  they  last ;  Anne's  adorers  went  sleep 
less  if  by  chance  she  gave  especial  attention  to  any  other 
pupil.  The  adored  one  meanwhile  did  not  notice  these  lit 
tle  intensities ;  her  mind  was  absorbed  by  other  thoughts. 

Four  days  before  Christinas  two  letters  came ;  one  was 
her  own  to  East,  returned  at  last  from  the  Dead-letter 
Office ;  the  other  was  from  Miss  Lois,  telling  of  the  seri 
ous  illness  of  Dr.  Gastoii.  The  old  chaplain  had  had  a 
stroke  of  paralysis,  and  Rast  had  been  summoned ;  fortu 
nately  his  last  letter  had  been  from  St.  Louis,  to  which 
place  he  had  unexpectedly  returned,  and  therefore  they 
had  been  able  to  reach  him  by  message  to  Chicago  and  a 
telegraphic  dispatch.  Dr.  Gaston  wished  to  see  him ;  the 
youth  had  been  his  ward  as  well  as  almost  child,  and  there 
were  business  matters  to  be  arranged  between  them. 
Anne's  tears  fell  as  she  read  of  her  dear  old  teacher's  dan 
ger,  and  the  impulse  came  to  her  to  go  to  him  at  once. 
Was  she  not  his  child  as  well  as  East  ?  But  the  impulse 
was  checked  by  the  remainder  of  the  letter.  Miss  Lois 
wrote,  sadly,  that  she  had  tried  to  keep  it  from  Anne, 
but  had  not  succeeded :  since  August  her  small  income 
had  been  much  reduced,  owing  to  the  failure  of  a  New 
Hampshire  bank,  and  she  now  found  that  with  all  her 
effort  they  could  not  quite  live  on  what  was  left.  ' '  Very 
nearly,  dear  child.  I  think,  with  thirty  dollars,  I  can 
manage  until  spring.  Then  everything  will  be  cheaper. 
I  should  not  have  kept  it  from  you  if  it  had  not  happened 
at  the  very  time  of  your  trouble  with  that  wicked  old 
woman,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  add  to  your  care.  But 


342  ANNE. 

the  boys  have  what  is  called  fine  appetites  (I  wish  they 
were  not  quite  so  '  fine'),  and  of  course  this  winter,  and 
never  before,  my  provisions  were  spoiled  in  my  own  cel 
lar." 

Anne  had  intended  to  send  to  Miss  Lois  all  her  small 
savings  on  Christmas-day.  She  now  went  to  the  princi 
pal  of  the  school,  asked  that  the  payment  of  her  salary 
might  be  advanced,  and  forwarded  all  she  was  able  to  send 
to  the  poverty-stricken  little  household  in  the  church- 
house.  That  night  she  wept  bitter  tears ;  the  old  chap 
lain  was  dying,  and  she  could  not  go  to  him ;  the  children 
were  perhaps  suffering.  For  the  first  time  in  a  life  of 
poverty  she  felt  its  iron  hand  crushing  her  down.  Her 
letter  to  Hast  lay  before  her ;  she  could  not  send  it  now 
and  disturb  the  last  hours  on  earth  of  their  dear  old 
friend.  She  laid  it  aside  and  waited — waited  through 
those  long  hours  of  dreary  suspense  which  those  must  bear 
who  are  distant  from  the  dying  beds  of  their  loved 
ones. 

In  the  mean  time  East  had  arrived.  Miss  Lois  wrote 
of  the  chaplain's  joy  at  seeing  him.  The  next  letter  con 
tained  the  tidings  that  death"  had  come ;  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  peacefully,  with  scarcely  a  sigh,  the  old  man's  soul 
had  passed  from  earth.  Colonel  Brydeii,  coming  in  soon 
afterward,  and  looking  upon  the  calm  face,  had  said, 
gently, 

"  Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time; 
Say  not  good-night,  but,  in  some  brighter  clime, 

Bid  me  good-morning." 

When  Anne  knew  that  the  funeral  was  over,  that  an 
other  grave  had  been  made  under  the  snow  in  the  little 
military  cemetery,  and  that,  with  the  strange  swiftness 
which  is  so  hard  for  mourning  hearts  to  realize,  daily  life 
was  moving  on  again  in  the  small  island  circle  where 
the  kind  old  face  would  be  seen  no  more,  she  sent  her 
letter,  the  same  old  letter,  unaltered  and  travel- worn. 
Then  she  waited.  She  could  not  receive  her  answer  be 
fore  the  eighth  or  ninth  day.  But  on  the  fifth  came 
two  letters ;  on  the  seventh,  three.  The  first  were  from 


ANNE.  343 

Miss  Lois  and  Mrs.  Bryden :  the  others  from  Tita,  Pere 
Michaux,  and— East.  And  the  extraordinary  tidings  they 
brought  were  these :  Hast  had  married  Tita.  The  little 
sister  was  now  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  A  slave  had  long  worn  a  chain  upon  his  ankle.  By  the  order  of 
his  master  it  was  removed.  '  Why  dost  thou  spring  aloft  and  sing,  0 
slave  ?  Surely  the  sun  is  as  fierce  and  thy  burden  as  heavy  as  before.' 
The  slave  replied :  '  Ten  times  the  sun  and  the  burden  would  seem 
light,  now  that  the  chain  is  removed.1  " — From  tlw  Arabic. 

Miss  Lois's  letter  was  a  wail : 

* '  MY  POOR  DEAR  OUTRAGED  CHILD, — What  can  I  say  to 
you  ?  There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  prepare  you  for  it, 
since  you  would  never  conceive  such  double-dyed  black 
ness  of  heart !  Tita  has  run  away.  She  slipped  off  clan 
destinely,  and  they  think  she  has  followed  Rast,  who  left 
yesterday  on  his  way  back  to  St.  Louis  and  the  West. 
Pere  Michaux  has  followed  her,  saying  that  if  he  found 
them  together  he  should,  acting  as  Tita's  guardian,  insist 
upon  a  marriage  before  he  returned !  He  feels  himself  re 
sponsible  for  Tita,  he  says,  and  paid  no  attention  when  I 
asked  him  if  no  one  was  to  be  responsible  for  you  I  My 
poor  child,  it  seems  that  I  have  been  blind  all  along;  I 
never  dreamed  of  what  was  going  on.  The  little  minx 
deceived  me  completely.  I  thought  her  so  much  im 
proved,  so  studious,  while  all  the  time  she  was  meeting 
Erastus,  or  planning  to  meet  him,  with  a  skill  far  beyond 
"my  comprehension.  All  last  summer,  they  tell  me,  she 
was  with  him  constantly;  those  daily  journeys  to  Pere 
Michaux's  island  were  for  that  purpose,  while  /supposed 
they  were  for  prayers.  What  Erastus  thought  or  meant, 
no  one  seems  to  know ;  but  they  all  combined  in  declaring 
that  the  child  (child  no  longer !)  was  deeply  in  love  with 
him,  and  that  everybody  saw  it  save  me.  My  New  Eng 
land  blood  could  not,  I  am  proud  to  say,  grasp  it !  You 
know,  my  poor  darling,  the  opinion  I  have  ahvays  had 
concerning  Tita's  mother,  who  slyly  and  artfully  in- 


344  ANNE. 

veigled  your  honored  father  into  a  trap.  Tita  has  there 
fore  but  followed  in  her  mother's  footsteps. 

' '  That  Erastus  has  ever  cared,  or  cares  now  in  the 
least,  for  her,  save  as  a  plaything,  I  will  never  believe. 
But  Pere  Michaux  is  like  a  mule  for  stubbornness,  as  you 
know,  and  I  fear  he  will  marry  them  in.  any  case.  He 
did  not  seem  to  think  of  you  at  all,  and  when  I  said, 
' Anne  will  die  of  grief!'  he  only  smiled — yes,  smiled — 
and  Frenchly  shrugged  his  shoulders!  My  poor  child, 
I  have  but  little  hope,  because  if  he  appeals  to  Erastus's 
honor,  what  can  the  boy  do  ?  He  is  the  soul  of  honor. 

"  I  can  hardly  write,  my  brain  has  been  so  overturned. 
To  think  that  Tita  should  have  outwitted  us  all  at  her  age, 
and  gained  her  point  over  everything,  over  you  and  over 
East — poor,  poor  East,  who  will  be  so  miserably  sacrificed ! 
I  will  write  again  to-morrow ;  but  if  Pere  Michaux  carries 
out  his  strange  Jesuitical  design,  you  will  hear  from  him 
probably  before  you  can  hear  again  from  me.  Bear  up, 
my  dearest  Anne.  I  acknowledge  that,  so  far,  I  have 
found  it  difficult  to  see  the  Divine  purpose  in  this,  unless 
indeed  it  be  to  inform  us  that  we  are  all  but  cinders  and 
ashes;  which,  however,  I  for  one  have  long  known." 

Mrs.  Bryden's  letter: 

"  DEAR  ANNE, — I  feel  drawn  toward  you  more  closely 
since  the  illness  and  death  of  our  dear  Dr.  Gaston,  who 
loved  you  so  tenderly,  and  talked  so  much  of  you  during 
his  last  days  with  us.  It  is  but  a  short  time  since  I  wrote 
to  you,  giving  some  of  the  messages  he  left,  and  telling  of 
his  peaceful  departure ;  but  now  I  feel  that  I  must  write 
again  upon  a  subject  which  is  painful,  yet  one  upon 
which  you  should  have,  I  think,  all  the  correct  details 
immediately.  Miss  Hinsdale  is  no  doubt  writing  to  you 
also;  but  she  does  not  know  all.  She  has  not  perceived, 
as  we  have,  the  gradual  approaches  to  this  catastrophe 
— I  can  call  it  by  no  other  name 

"When  you  went  away,  your  half-sister  was  a  child. 
With  what  has  seemed  lightning  rapidity  she  has  grown 
to  womanhood,  and  for  months  it  has  been  plainly  evi 
dent  that  she  was  striving  in  every  way  to  gain  and  hold 
the  attention  of  Erastus  Pronando.  He  lingered  here 


ANNE.  345 

almost  all  summer,  as  you  will  remember;  Tita  follow 
ed  him  everywhere.  Miss  Hinsdale,  absorbed  in  the  cares 
of  housekeeping,  knew  nothing  of  it ;  but  daily,  on  one 
pretext  or  another,  they  were  together.  Whether  Eras 
tus  was  interested  I  have  no  means  of  knowing;  but  that 
Tita  is  now  extremely  pretty  in  a  certain  style,  and  that 
she  was  absorbed  in  him,  we  could  all  see.  It  was  not 
our  affair;  yet  we  might  have  felt  called  upon  to  make  it 
ours  if  it  had  not  been  for  Pere  Michaux.  He  was  her 
constant  guardian. 

' '  Erastus  went  away  yesterday  in  advance  of  the  mail- 
train.  He  bade  us  all  good-by,  and  I  am  positive  that  he 
had  no  plan,  not  even  a  suspicion  of  what  was  to  follow. 
We  have  a  new  mail-carrier  this  winter,  Denis  being  con 
fined  to  his  cabin  with  rheumatism.  Tita  must  have 
slipped  away  unperceived,  and  joined  this  man  at  dusk 
on  the  ice  a  mile  or  two  below  the  island ;  her  track  was 
found  this  morning.  Erastus  expected  to  join  the  mail- 
train  to-day,  and  she  knew  it,  of  course;  the  probability 
is,  therefore,  that  they  are  now  together.  It  seems  hard 
ly  credible  that  so  young  a  head  could  have  arranged  its 
plans  so  deftly ;  yet  it  is  certainly  true  that,  even  if  East 
wished  to  bring  her  back,  he  could  not  do  so  immediately, 
not  until  the  up-train  passed  them.  Pere  Michaux  start 
ed  after  them  this  morning,  travelling  in  his  own  sledge. 
He  thinks  (it  is  better  that  you  should  know  it,  Anne)  that 
Erastus  is  fond  of  Tita,  and  that  only  his  engagement  to 
you  has  held  him  back.  Now  that  the  step  has  been  taken, 
he  has  no  real  doubt  but  that  Rast  himself  will  wish  to 
marry  her,  and  without  delay. 

"All  this  will  seem  very  strange  to  you,  my  dear  child ; 
but  I  trust  it  will  not  be  so  hard  a  blow  as  Miss  Hins 
dale  apprehends.  Pere  Michaux  told  me  this  morning  in 
so  many  words:  'Anne  has  never  loved  the  boy  with 
anything  more  than  the  affection  of  childhood.  It  will 
be  for  her  a  release. '  He  was  convinced  of  this,  and  went 
off  on  his  journey  with  what  looked  very  much  like  glad 
ness.  I  hope,  with  all  my  heart,  that  he  is  right. "  Then, 
with  a  few  more  words  of  kindly  friendship,  the  letter 
ended. 


346  ANNE. 

The  other  envelope  bore  the  rude  pen-and-ink  postmark 
of  a  Northwestern  lumber  settlement,  where  travellers 
coming  down  from  the  North  in  the  winter  over  the  ice 
and  snow  met  the  pioneer  railway,  which  had  pushed  its 
track  to  that  point  before  the  blockade  of  the  cold  began. 

Tita's  letter: 

' '  DEEREST  SISTER, — You  will  not  I  am  sure  blaime  your 
little  Tita  for  following  the  impulse  of  her  hart.  Since 
you  were  hear  I  have  grown  up  and  it  is  the  truth  that 
Bast  has  loved  me  for  yeers  of  his  own  accord  and  be 
cause  he  could  not  help  it — deerest  sister  who  can.  But 
he  never  ment  to  break  his  word  to  you  and  he  tryed  not 
to  but  was  devowered  by  his  love  for  me  and  you  will  for 
give  him  deerest  sister  will  you  not  since  there  is  no  more 
hope  for  you  as  we  were  married  by  Pere  Michaux  an 
hour  ago  who  approved  of  all  and  has  hartily  given  us 
his  bennydiction.  Since  my  spiritual  directeur  has  no 
reproche  you  will  not  have  enny  I  am  sure  and  remain 
your  loving  sister,  ANGELIQUE  PRONANDO." 

"P.  S.  We  go  to  Chicago  to-day.  Enny  money  for 
close  for  me  could  be  sent  to  the  Illinois  Hotel,  where 
my  deerest  husband  says  we  are  to  stay.  A.  P." 

Pere  Michaux's  letter : 

"DEAR  ANNE, — It  is  not  often  that  I  speak  so  bluntly 
as  I  shall  speak  now.  In  marrying,  this  morning,  your 
half-sister  Angelique  to  Erastus  Pronando  I  feel  that  I 
have  done  you  a  great  service.  You  did  not  love  him  with 
the  real  love  of  a  nature  like  yours — the  love  that  will 
certainly  come  to  you  some  day;  perhaps  has  already 
come.  I  have  always  known  this,  and,  in  accordance  with 
it,  did  all  I  could  to  prevent  the  engagement  originally. 
I  failed;  but  this  day's  work  has  made  up  for  the  failure. 

' '  Angelique  has  grown  into  a  woman.  She  is  also  very 
beautiful,  after  a  peculiar  fashion  of  her  own.  All  the 
strength  of  her  nature,  such  as  it  is,  is  concentrated  upon 
the  young  man  who  is  now  her  husband.  From  child 
hood  she  has  loved  him ;  she  was  bitterly  jealous  of  you 
even  before  you  went  away.  I  have  been  aware  of  this, 
but  until  lately  I  was  not  sure  of  Hast.  Her  increasing 
beauty,  however,  added  to  her  intense  absorbed  interest  in 


ANNE.  347 

him,  has  conquered.  Seeing-  this,  I  have  watched  with 
satisfaction  the  events  of  the  past  summer,  and  have  even 
assisted  somewhat  (and  with  a  clear  conscience)  in  their 
development. 

' '  Erastus,  even  if  you  had  loved  him,  Anne,  could  not 
have  made  you  happy.  And  neither  would  you  have 
made  him  happy;  for  he  is  quick-witted,  and  he  would 
have  inevitably,  and  in  spite  of  all  your  tender  humility, 
my  child,  discovered  your  intellectual  superiority,  and  in 
time  would  have  angrily  resented  it.  For  he  is  vain ;  his 
nature  is  light ;  he  needs  adulation  in  order  to  feel  con 
tented.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  kind-hearted  and  affec 
tionate,  and  to  Tita  will  be  a  demi-god  always.  The 
faults  that  would  have  been  death  to  you,  she  will  never 
see.  She  is  therefore  the  fit  wife  for  him. 

"You  will  ask,  Does  he  love  her?  I  answer,  Yes. 
When  he  came  back  to  the  island,  and  found  her  so  dif 
ferent,  the  same  elfish  little  creature,  but  now  strangely 
pretty,  openly  fond  of  him,  following  him  everywhere, 
with  the  words  of  a  child  but  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  he 
was  at  first  surprised,  then  annoyed,  then  amused,  inter 
ested,  and  finally  fascinated.  He  struggled  against  it. 
I  give  him  the  due  of  justice — he  did  struggle.  But  Tita 
was  always  there.  He  went  away  hurriedly  at  the  last, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Dr.  Gaston's  illness  and  his 
own  recall  to  the  island,  it  might  not  have  gone  farther. 
Tita  understood  this  as  well  as  I  did ,  she  made  the  most 
of  her  time.  Still,  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  had  no  sus 
picion  she  intended  to  follow  him ;  the  plan  was  all  her 
own.  She  did  follow  him.  And  I  followed  her.  I 
caught  up  with  them  that  very  day  at  sunset,  and  an 
hour  ago  I  married  them.  If  you  have  not  already  for 
given  me,  Anne,  you  will  do  so  some  day.  I  have  no 
fear.  I  can  wait.  I  shall  go  on  with  them  as  far  as 
Chicago,  and  then,  after  a  day  or  two,  I  shall  return  to 
the  island.  Do  not  be  disturbed  by  anything  Miss  Lois 
may  write.  She  has  been  blindly  mistaken  from  the  be 
ginning.  In  truth,  there  is  a  vein  of  obstinate  weakness 
on  some  subjects  in  that  otherwise  estimable  woman,  for 
which  I  have  always  been  at  a  loss  to  account." 


348  ANNE. 

Ah,  wise  old  priest,  there  are  some  things  too  deep  for 
even  you  to  know ! 

Rast's  letter  was  short.  It  touched  Anne  more  than 
any  of  the  others  : 

"What  must  you  think  of  me,  Annet?  Forgive  me, 
and  forget  me.  I  did  try.  But  would  you  have  cared 
for  a  man  who  had  to  try  ?  When  I  think  of  you  I  scorn 
myself.  But  she  is  the  sweetest,  dearest,  most  winning 
little  creature  the  world  ever  saw ;  and  my  only  excuse 
is  that— I  love  her.  E.  P." 

These  few  lines,  in  which  the  young  husband  made 
out  no  case  for  himself,  sought  no  shield  in  the  little 
bride's  own  rashness,  but  simply  avowed  his  love,  and 
took  all  the  responsibility  upon  himself,  pleased  the  eld 
er  sister.  It  was  manly.  She  was  glad  that  Tita  had  a 
defender. 

She  had  read  these  last  letters  standing  in  the  centre  of 
her  room,  Jeanne- Armaiide  anxiously  watching  her  from 
the  open  door.  The  Frenchwoman  had  poured  out  a  glass 
of  water,  and  had  it  in  readiness;  she  thought  that  per 
haps  Anne  was  going  to  faint.  With  no  distinct  idea  of 
what  had  happened,  she  had  lived  in  a  riot  of  conjecture 
for  two  days. 

But  instead  of  fainting,  Anne,  holding  the  letters  in 
her  hand,  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Well,  dear,  will  you  go  to  bed  ?"  she  said,  solicitously. 

"  Why  should  I  go  to  bed  ?" 

' '  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  heard — had  heard  bad 
news." 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  Anne,  slowly  and  gravely, 
"  I  am  afraid,  mademoiselle,  that  the  news  is  good — even 
very  good." 

For  her  heart  had  flown  out  of  its  cage  and  upward  as 
a  freed  bird  darts  up  in  the  sky.  The  bond,  on  her  side 
at  least,  was  gone ;  she  was  free.  Now  she  would  live  a 
life  of  self-abnegation  and  labor,  but  without  inward 
thralldom.  Women  had  lived  such  lives  before  she  was 
born,  women  would  live  such  lives  after  she  was  dead. 
She  would  be  one  of  the  sisterhood,  and  coveting  nothing 
of  the  actual  joy  of  love,  she  would  cherish  only  the  ideal, 


ANNE.  349 

an  altar-light  within,  burning  forever.  The  cares  of  each 
day  were  as  nothing  now :  she  was  free,  free ! 

In  her  exaltation  she  did  not  recognize  as  wrong  the 
opposite  course  she  had  intended  to  follow  before  the 
lightning  fell,  namely,  uniting  herself  to  one  man  while 
so  deeply  loving  another.  She  was  of  so  humble  and 
unconscious  a  spirit  regarding  herself  that  it  had  not 
seemed  to  her  that  the  inner  feelings  of  her  heart  would 
be  of  consequence  to  East,  so  long  as  she  was  the  obedi 
ent,  devoted,  faithful  wife  she  was  determined  with  all 
her  soul  to  be.  For  she  had  not  that  imaginative  egotism 
which  so  many  women  possess,  which  makes  them  spend 
their  lives  in  illusion,  weaving  round  their  every  thought 
and  word  an  importance  which  no  one  else  can  discern. 
According  to  these  women,  there  are  a  thousand  innocent 
acts  which  "he"  (lover  or  husband)  "would  not  for  an 
instant  allow,"  although  to  the  world  at  large  "he"  ap 
pears  indifferent  enough.  They  go  through  long  turmoil, 
from  which  they  emerge  triumphantly,  founded  upon 
some  hidden  jealousy  which  "he"  is  supposed  to  feel,  so 
well  hidden  generally,  and  so  entirely  supposed,  that  per 
sons  with  less  imagination  never  observe  it.  But  after 
all,  smile  as  we  may,  it  is  only  those  who  are  in  most  re 
spects  happy  and  fortunate  wives  who  can  so  entertain 
themselves.  For  cold  unkindness,  or  a  harsh  and  brutal 
word,  will  rend  this  filrny  fabric  of  imagination  immedi 
ately,  never  to  be  re  woven  again. 

Anne  wrote  to  East,  repeating  the  contents  of  the  old 
letter,  which  had  been  doomed  never  to  reach  him.  She 
asked  him  to  return  the  wanderer  unopened  Avhen  it 
was  forwarded  to  him  from  the  island ;  there  was  a  depth 
of  feeling  in  it  which  it  was  not  necessary  now  that  he 
should  see.  She  told  him  that  her  own  avowal  should 
lift  from  him  all  the  weight  of  wrong-doing ;  she  had  first 
gone  astray.  "We  were  always  like  brother  and  sister, 
East;  I  see  it  now.  It  is  far  better  as  it  is." 

A  few  days  later  Pere  Michaux  wrote  again,  and  in 
closed  a  picture  of  Tita.  The  elder  sister  gazed  at  it  curi 
ously.  This  was  not  Tita ;  and  yet  those  were  her  eyes, 
and  that  the  old  well-remembered  mutinous  expression 


350  ANNE. 

still  lurking  about  the  little  mouth.  Puzzled,  she  took 
it  to  mademoiselle.  "It  is  my  little  sister,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  think  it  pretty  ?" 

Jeaniie-Armande  put  on  her  spectacles,  and  held  it 
frowningly  at  different  distances  from  her  eyes. 

" It  is  odd,"  she  said  at  last.  ' '  Ye — es,  it  is  pretty  too. 
But,  for  a  child's  face,  remarkable." 

"She  is  not  a  child." 

"Not  a  child?" 

"No;  she  is  married,"  replied  Anne,  smiling. 

Mademoiselle  pursed  up  her  lips,  and  examined  the 
picture  with  one  eye  closed.  "After  all,"  she  said,  "I 
can  believe  it.  The  eyes  are  mature." 

The  little  bride  was  represented  standing;  she  leaned 
against  a  pillar  nonchalantly,  and  outlined  on  a  light 
background,  the  extreme  smallness  of  her  figure  was  clear 
ly  shown.  Her  eyes  were  half  veiled  by  their  large  droop 
ing  lids  and  long  lashes ;  her  little  oval  face  looked  small, 
like  that  of  a  child.  Her  dress  was  long,  and  swept  over 
the  floor  with  the  richness  of  silk:  evidently  Pere  Mi- 
chaux  had  not  stinted  the  lavish  little  hands  when  they 
made  their  first  purchase  of  a  full-grown  woman's  attire. 
For  the  priest  had  taken  upon  himself  this  outlay ;  the 
"money  for  close,"  of  which  Tita  had  written,  was  pro 
vided  from  his  purse.  He  wrote  to  Anne  that  as  he  was 
partly  responsible  for  the  wedding,  he  was  also  responsi 
ble  for  the  trousseau ;  and  he  returned  the  money  which 
with  great  difficulty  the  elder  sister  had  sent. 

"She  must  be  very  small,"  said  mademoiselle,  musing 
ly,  as  they  still  studied  the  picture. 

' '  She  is ;  she  has  the  most  slender  little  face  I  ever  saw. " 

Tita's  head  was  thrown  back  as  she  leaned  against  the 
pillar;  there  was  a  half-smile  on  her  delicate  lips;  her 
thick  hair  was  still  braided  childishly  in  two  long  braids 
which  hung  over  her  shoulders  and  down  on  the  silken 
skirt  behind ;  in  her  small  ears  were  odd  long  hoops  of 
gold,  which  Pere  Michaux  had  given  her,  selecting  them 
himself  on  account  of  their  adaptation  to  her  half-Orient 
al,  half -elfin  beauty.  Her  cheeks  showed  no  color;  there 
were  brown  shadows  under  her  eyes.  On  her  slender 


''MISS   LOIS   SIGHED   DEEPLY. 


ANNE.  351 

brown  hand  shone  the  wedding-  ring-.  The  picture  was 
well  executed,  and  had  been  carefully  tinted  under  Pere 
Miehaux's  eye :  the  old  priest  knew  that  it  was  Rast's  best 
excuse. 

Now  that  Anne  was  freed,  he  felt  no  animosity  toward 
the  young  husband ;  on  the  contrary,  he  wished  to  ad 
vance  his  interests  in  every  way  that  he  could.  Tita  was 
a  selfish  little  creature,  yet  she  adored  her  husband.  She 
would  have  killed  herself  for  him  at  any  moment.  But 
first  she  wrould  have  killed  him. 

He  saw  them  start  for  the  far  West,  and  then  he  return 
ed  northward  to  his  island  home.  Miss  Lois,  dishearten 
ed  by  all  that  had  happened,  busied  herself  in  taking  care 
of  the  boys  dumbly,  and  often  shook  her  head  at  the  fire 
when  sitting  alone  with  her  knitting.  She  never  open 
ed  the  old  piano  now,  and  she  wras  less  stringent  with 
her  Indian  servants ;  she  would  even  have  given  up  quiet 
ly  her  perennial  alphabet  teaching  if  Pere  Michaux  had 
not  discovered  the  intention,  and  quizzically  approved  it, 
whereat,  of  course,  she  was  obliged  to  go  on.  In  truth, 
the  old  man  did  this  purposely,  having  noticed  the  change 
in  his  old  antagonist.  He  fell  into  the  habit  of  coming  to 
the  church-house  more  frequently — to  teach  the  boys,  he 
said.  He  did  teach  the  little  rascals,  and  taught  them 
well,  but  he  also  talked  to  Miss  Lois.  The  original  found 
ers  of  the  church-house  would  have  been  well  astonished 
could  they  have  risen  from  their  graves  and  beheld  the 
old  priest  and  the  New  England  woman  sitting  on  op 
posite  sides  of  the  fire  in  the  neat  shining  room,  which 
still  retained  its  Puritan  air  in  spite  of  years,  the  boys,  and 
Episcopal  apostasy. 

Regarding  East's  conduct,  Miss  Lois  maintained  a  grim 
silence.  The  foundations  of  her  faith  in  life  had  been 
shaken ;  but  how  could  she,  supposed  to  be  a  sternly  prac 
tical  person,  confess  it  to  the  world — confess  that  she  had 
dreamed  like  a  girl  over  this  broken  betrothal  ? 

"Do  you  not  see  how  much  happier,  freer,  she  is?" 
the  priest  would  say,  after  reading  one  of  Anne's  letters. 
"The  very  tone  betrays  it." 

Miss  Lois  sighed  deeply,  and  poked  the  fire. 


354  ANNE. 

If  a  girl,  no  matter  how  light  of  heart  and  frivolous,  a 
silence  and  soberness  came  over  her  for  a  moment,  and 
her  eyes  grew  wistful.  If  a  woman,  one  who  had  loved, 
no  matter  how  hard  and  cold  she  had  grown,  a  warmer 
heart  came  back  to  her  then,  and  tears  rose.  What  was 
it  ?  Only  a  few  men  dressed  in  the  holiday  uniform  these 
towns-people  had  often  seen ;  men  many  of  whom  they 
knew  well,  together  with  their  shortcomings  and  weak 
nesses,  whose  military  airs  they  had  laughed  at ;  men 
who,  taken  singly,  had  neither  importance  nor  inter 
est.  What  was  it,  then,  that  made  the  women's  eyes 
tearful,  and  sent  the  great  crowd  thronging  round  and 
after  them  as  though  each  one  had  been  crowned  king  ? 
What  made  the  groups  on  the  steps  and  piazzas  of  each 
house  keep  silence  after  they  had  passed,  and  watch  them 
as  long  as  they  could  distinguish  the  moving  lines  ?  It 
was  that  these  men  had  made  the  first  reply  of  this  town 
to  the  President's  call.  It  was  because  these  holiday 
soldiers  were  on  their  way  to  real  battle-fields,  where 
balls  would  plough  through  human  flesh,  and  leave 
agony  and  death  behind.  The  poorest,  dullest,  soldier 
who  wras  in  these  ranks  from  a  sense  of  loyalty,  how 
ever  dim  and  inarticulate  it  might  be,  gave  all  he  had  r 
martyr  or  saint  never  gave  more.  Not  many  of  the 
gazing  people  thought  of  this ;  but  they  did  think  of  death 
by  bayonet  and  hall  as  the  holiday  ranks  marched  by. 

Down  through  the  main  street  went  the  little  troop,  and 
the  crowd  made  a  solid  wall  on  the  sidewalk,  and  a  mov 
ing  guard  before  and  behind.  From  the  high  windows 
above,  the  handkerchiefs  of  the  work-girls  fluttered,  while 
underneath  from  the  law  offices,  and  below  from  the  door 
ways,,  men  looked  out  soberly,  realizing  that  this  meant 
War  indeed — real  and  near  War. 

By  another  way,  down  the  hill  toward  the  rail  way  - 
station,  rattled  the  wheels  of  an  artillery  company ;  also 
a  little  holiday  troop,  with  holiday  guns  shining  bright 
ly.  The  men  sat  in  their  places  Avith  folded  arms;  the 
crowd,  seeing  them,  knew  them  all.  They  were  only 
Miller,  and  Sieberling,  and  Wagner,  and  others  as  famil 
iar;  six  months  ago— a  month  ago — they  would  have 


ANNE.  355 

laughed  inexhaustibly  at  the  idea  of  calling  Tom  Miller  a 
hero,  or  elevating  Fritz  Wagner  to  any  other  pedestal 
than  the  top  of  a  beer  barrel.  But  now,  as  they  saw 
them,  they  gave  a  mighty  cheer,  which  rang  through  the 
air  splendidly,  and  raised  a  hue  of  pride  upon  the  faces 
of  the  artillerymen,  and  perhaps  the  first  feeling  in  some 
of  their  hearts  higher  than  the  determination  not  to 
"back  out,"  which  had  been  until  then  their  actuating 
motive.  The  two  shining  little  guns  rattled  down  the 
hill;  the  infantry  company  marched  down  behind  them. 
The  line  of  cars,  with  locomotive  attached,  was  in  wait 
ing,  and,  breaking  ranks,  helter-skelter,  in  any  way  and 
every  way,  hindered  by  hand-shaking,  by  all  sorts  of  in 
congruous  parting  gifts  thrust  upon  them  at  the  last  mo 
ment  by  people  they  never  saw  before,  blessed  by  excited, 
tearful  women,  made  heart-sick  themselves  by  the  sight 
of  the  grief  of  their  mothers  and  wives,  the  soldiers  took 
their  places  in  the  cars,  and  the  train  moved  out  from 
the  station,  followed  by  a  long  cheer,  taken  up  and  re 
peated  again  and  again,  until  nothing  but  a  dark  speck 
on  the  straight  track  remained  for  the  shouters  to  look 
at,  when  they  stopped  suddenly,  hoarse  and  tired,  and 
went  silently  homeward,  pondering  upon  this  new  thing 
which  had  come  into  their  lives.  The  petty  cares  of  the 
day  were  forgotten.  "War  is  hideous;  but  it  banishes 
littleness  from  daily  life." 

Anne,  brought  up  as  she  had  been  in  a  remote  little 
community,  isolated  and  half  foreign,  was  in  a  measure 
ignorant  of  the  causes  and  questions  of  the  great  strug 
gle  which  began  in  America  in  April,  1861.  Not  hers  the 
prayerful  ardor  of  the  New  England  girl  who  that  day 
willingly  gave  her  lover,  saw  him  brought  home  later 
dead,  buried  him,  and  lived  on,  because  she  believed  that 
he  had  died  to  free  his  brother  man,  as  Christ  had  died 
for  her.  Not  hers  the  proud  loyalty  of  the  Southern  girl 
to  her  blood  and  to  her  State,  when  that  day  she  bade 
her  lover  go  forth  and  sweep  their  fanatical  assailants 
back,  as  the  old  Cavaliers,  from  whom  they  were  descend 
ed,  swept  back  the  crop-eared  Puritans  into  the  sea. 

Jeaniie-Armande  was  not  especially  stirred  ;  save  by 


354  ANNE. 

If  a  girl,  no  matter  how  light  of  heart  and  frivolous,  a 
silence  and  soberness  came  over  her  for  a  moment,  and 
her  eyes  grew  wistful.  If  a  woman,  one  who  had  loved, 
no  matter  how  hard  and  cold  she  had  grown,  a  warmer 
heart  came  back  to  her  then,  and  tears  rose.  What  was 
it  ?  Only  a  few  men  dressed  in  the  holiday  uniform  these 
towns-people  had  often  seen ;  men  many  of  whom  they 
knew  well,  together  with  their  shortcomings  and  weak 
nesses,  whose  military  airs  they  had  laughed  at ;  men 
who,  taken  singly,  had  neither  importance  nor  inter 
est.  What  was  it,  then,  that  made  the  women's  eyes 
tearful,  and  sent  the  great  crowd  thronging  round  and 
after  them  as  though  each  one  had  been  crowned  king  ? 
What  made  the  groups  on  the  steps  and  piazzas  of  each 
house  keep  silence  after  they  had  passed,  and  watch  them 
as  long  as  they  could  distinguish  the  moving  lines  ?  It 
was  that  these  men  had  made  the  first  reply  of  this  town 
to  the  President's  call.  It  was  because  these  holiday 
soldiers  were  on  their  way  to  real  battle-fields,  where 
balls  would  plough  through  human  flesh,  and  leave 
agony  and  death  behind.  The  poorest,  dullest,  soldier 
who  was  in  these  ranks  from  a  sense  of  loyalty,  how 
ever  dim  and  inarticulate  it  might  be,  gave  all  he  had : 
martyr  or  saint  never  gave  more.  Not  many  of  the 
gazing  people  thought  of  this ;  but  they  did  think  of  death 
by  bayonet  and  hall  as  the  holiday  ranks  marched  by. 

Down  through  the  main  street  went  the  little  troop,  and 
the  crowd  made  a  solid  wall  on  the  sidewalk,  and  a  mov 
ing  guard  before  and  behind.  From  the  high  windows 
above,  the  handkerchiefs  of  the  work-girls  fluttered,  while 
underneath  from  the  law  offices,  and  below  from  the  door 
ways,  men  looked  out  soberly,  realizing  that  this  meant 
War  indeed — real  and  near  War. 

By  another  way>  down  the  hill  toward  the  railway, 
station,  rattled  the  wheels  of  an  artillery  company ;  also 
a  little  holiday  troop,  with  holiday  guns  shining  bright 
ly.  The  men  sat  in  their  places  with  folded  arms;  the 
crowd,  seeing  them,  knew  them  all.  They  were  only 
Miller,  and  Sieberling,  and  Wagner,  and  others  as  famil 
iar;  six  months  ago— a  month  ago— they  would  have 


ANNE.  355 

laughed  inexhaustibly  at  the  idea  of  calling  Tom  Miller  a 
hero,  or  elevating  Fritz  Wagner  to  any  other  pedestal 
than  the  top  of  a  beer  barrel.  But  now,  as  they  saw 
them,  they  gave  a  mighty  cheer,  which  rang  through  the 
air  splendidly,  and  raised  a  hue  of  pride  upon  the  faces 
of  the  artillerymen,  and  perhaps  the  first  feeling  in  some 
of  their  hearts  higher  than  the  determination  not  to 
"back  out,"  which  had  been  until  then  their  actuating 
motive.  The  two  shining  little  guns  rattled  down  the 
hill;  the  infantry  company  marched  down  behind  them. 
The  line  of  cars,  with  locomotive  attached,  was  in  wait 
ing,  and,  breaking  ranks,  helter-skelter,  in  any  way  and 
every  way,  hindered  by  hand-shaking,  by  all  sorts  of  in 
congruous  parting  gifts  thrust  upon  them  at  the  last  mo 
ment  by  people  they  never  saw  before,  blessed  by  excited, 
tearful  women,  made  heart-sick  themselves  by  the  sight 
of  the  grief  of  their  mothers  and  wives,  the  soldiers  took 
their  places  in  the  cars,  and  the  train  moved  out  from 
the  station,  followed  by  a  long  cheer,  taken  up  and  re 
peated  again  and  again,  until  nothing  but  a  dark  speck 
on  the  straight  track  remained  for  the  shouters  to  look 
at,  when  they  stopped  suddenly,  hoarse  and  tired,  and 
went  silently  homeward,  pondering  upon  this  new  thing 
which  had  come  into  their  lives.  The  petty  cares  of  the 
day  were  forgotten.  ' '  War  is  hideous ;  but  it  banishes 
littleness  from  daily  life." 

Anne,  brought  up  as  she  had  been  in  a  remote  little 
community,  isolated  and  half  foreign,  was  in  a  measure 
ignorant  of  the  causes  and  questions  of  the  great  strug 
gle  which  began  in  America  in  April,  1861.  Not  hers  the 
prayerful  ardor  of  the  New  England  girl  who  that  day 
willingly  gave  her  lover,  saw  him  brought  home  later 
dead,  buried  him,  and  lived  on,  because  she  believed  that 
he  had  died  to  free  his  brother  man,  as  Christ  had  died 
for  her.  Not  hers  the  proud  loyalty  of  the  Southern  girl 
to  her  blood  and  to  her  State,  when  that  day  she  bade 
her  lover  go  forth  and  sweep  their  fanatical  assailants 
back,  as  the  old  Cavaliers,  from  whom  they  were  descend 
ed,  swept  back  the  crop-eared  Puritans  into  the  sea. 

Jeanne -Arrnande  was  not  especially  stirred  ;  save  by 


356  ANNE. 

impatience — impatience  over  this  interference  with  the 
prosperity  of  the  country.  It  might  injure  property  (the 
half -house),  and  break  up  music  classes  and  schools! 
What  sympathy  she  felt,  too,  was  with  the  South ;  but  she 
was  wise  enough  to  conceal  this  from  all  save  Anne,  since 
the  school  was  burning  with  zeal,  and  the  principal  al 
ready  engaged  in  teaching  the  pupils  to  make  lint.  But 
if  Jeanne- Armande  was  lukewarm,  Miss  Lois  was  at  fe 
ver  heat ;  the  old  New  England  spirit  rose  within  her  like 
a  giant  when  she  read  the  tidings.  Far  away  as  she  was 
from  all  the  influences  of  the  time,  she  yet  wrote  long 
letters  to  Anne  which  sounded  like  the  clash  of  spears, 
the  call  of  the  trumpet,  and  the  roll  of  drums,  so  fervid 
were  the  sentences  which  fell  of  themselves  into  the  war 
like  phraseology  of  the  Old  Testament,  learned  by  heart 
in  her  youth.  But  duty,  as  well  as  charity,  begins  at 
home,  and  even  the  most  burning  zeal  must  give  way 
before  the  daily  needs  of  children.  Little  Andre  was  not 
strong;  his  spine  was  becoming  curved,  they  feared.  In 
his  languor  he  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  asking  Miss 
Lois  to  hold  him  in  her  arms,  rock  with  him  in  the  old 
rocking-chair,  and  sing.  Miss  Lois  had  not  thought  that 
she  could  ever  love  ' '  those  children" ;  but  there  was  a  soft 
spot  in  her  heart  now  for  little  Andre. 

In  June  two  unexpected  changes  came.  Little  Andre 
grew  suddenly  worse ;  and  Jeanne- Armande  went  to  Eu 
rope.  A  rich  merchant  of  Weston,  wishing  to  take  his 
family  abroad,  engaged  mademoiselle  as  governess  for 
his  two  daughters,  and  French  speaker  for  the  party,  at 
what  she  herself  termed  "the  salary  of  a  princess.1'  The 
two  announcements  came  on  the  same  day.  Jeanne- Ar 
mande,  excited  and  tremulous,  covered  a  sheet  of  paper 
with  figures  to  show  to  herself  and  Anne  the  amount  of 
the  expected  gain.  As  she  could  not  retain  her  place  in 
the  school  without  the  magic  power  of  being  in  two  places 
at  once,  the  next  best  course  was  to  obtain  it  for  Anne, 
with  the  understanding  that  the  successor  was  to  relin 
quish  it  immediately  whenever  called  upon  to  do  so.  As 
they  were  in  the  middle  of  a  term,  the  principal  accepted 
Miss  Douglas,  who,  although  young,  had  proved  herself 


ANNE.  357 

competent  and  faithful.  And  thus  Anne  found  herself 
unexpectedly  possessed  of  a  higher  salary,  heavier  duties, 
and  alone.  For  Jeanne- Armande,  in  the  helmet  bonnet, 
sailed  on  the  twentieth  of  the  month  for  England,  in  com 
pany  with  her  charges,  who,  with  all  their  beauty  and 
bird-like  activity,  would  find  it  impossible  to  elude  made 
moiselle,  who  would  guard  them  with  unflinching  vigi 
lance,  and,  it  is  but  fair  to  add,  wrould  earn  every  cent  of 
even  that  "salary  of  a  princess"  (whatever  that  may  be) 
which  had  attracted  her. 

Before  mademoiselle  departed  it  had  been  decided  that 
in  consequence  of  little  Andre's  illness  Miss  Lois  should 
close  the  church-house,  and  take  the  child  to  the  hot  springs 
not  far  distant,  in  Michigan,  and  that  Louis  and  Gabriel 
should  come  to  their  elder  sister  for  a  time.  The  boys 
were  to  travel  to  Weston  alone,  Pere  Michaux  putting 
them  in  charge  of  the  captain  of  the  steamer,  while  Anne 
wras  to  meet  them  upon  their  arrival.  Miss  Lois  wrote 
that  they  were  wild  with  excitement,  and  had  begged  all 
sorts  of  farewell  presents  from  everybody,  and  packed 
them  in  the  two  chests  which  Pere  Michaux  had  given 
them — knives,  cord,  hammers,  nails,  the  last  being  "a 
box-stove,  old  and  rusty,  which  they  had  actually  tak 
en  to  pieces  and  hidden  among  their  clothes."  Jeaime- 
Armande  went  away  on  Monday;  the  boys  were  to  ar 
rive  on  Saturday.  Anne  spent  all  her  leisure  time  in 
preparing  for  them.  Two  of  the  little  black- eyed  fellows 
were  coming  at  last,  the  children  who  had  clung  to  her 
skirts,  called  her  "Annet,"and  now  and  then,  when 
they  felt  like  it,  swarmed  up  all  together  to  kiss  her,  like 
so  many  affectionate  young  bears.  They  were  very  dear 
to  her— part  of  her  childhood  and  of  the  island.  The  day 
arrived ;  full  of  expectation,  she  went  down  to  meet  the 
steamer.  Slowly  the  long  narrow  craft  threaded  its  way 
up  the  crooked  river;  the  great  ropes  \rere  made  fast,  the 
plank  laid  in  place;  out  poured  the  passengers,  men,  wo 
men,  and  children,  but  no  Louis,  no  Gabriel.  Anne 
watched  until  the  last  man  had  passed,  and  the  deck 
hands  were  beginning  to  roll  out  the  freight ;  then  a  voice 
spoke  above,  "Is  that  Miss  Douglas?" 


o58  ANNE. 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  the  captain,  who  asked  her 
to  come  011  board  for  a  moment.  ' '  I  am  very  much 
troubled,  Miss  Douglas,"  he  began,  wiping  his  red  but 
friendly  face.  "The  two  boys— your  half-brothers,  I  be 
lieve—placed  in  my  care  by  Pere  Michaux,  have  run 
away." 

Anne  gazed  at  him  in  silence. 

"They  must  have  slipped  off  the  boat  at  Hennepin, 
which  is  the  first  point  where  we  strike  a  railroad.  It 
seems  to  have  been  a  plan,  too,  for  they  managed  to  have 
their  chests  put  off  also." 

"You  have  no  idea  where  they  have  gone  ?" 

"No;  I  sent  letters  back  to  Hennepin  and  to  Pere 
Michaux  immediately,  making  inquiries.  The  only  clew 
I  have  is  that  they  asked  a  number  of  questions  about  the 
plains  of  one  of  our  hands,  who  has  been  out  thttt  way." 

"The  plains!" 

"Yes;  they  said  they  had  a  sister  living  out  there." 

A  pai-n  darted  through  Anne's  heart.  Could  they  have 
deserted  her  for  Tita  ?  She  went  home  desolate  and  dis 
heartened  ;  the  empty  rooms,  where  all  her  loving  pre 
parations  were  useless  now,  seemed  to  watch  her  satiri 
cally.  Even  the  boys  did  not  care  enough  for  her  to  think 
of  her  pain  and  disappointment. 

Pere  Michaux  had  had  no  suspicion  of  the  plan :  but 
he  knew  of  one  dark  fact  which  might  have,  he  wrote  to 
Anne,  a  bearing  upon  it.  Miss  Lois  had  mysteriously 
lost,  in  spite  of  all  her  care,  a  sum  of  money,  upon  which 
she  had  depended  for  a  part  of  the  summer's  expenses, 
and  concerning  which  she  had  made  great  lamentation ; 
it  had  been  made  up  by  the  renting  of  the  church-house ; 
but  the  mystery  remained.  If  the  boys  had  taken  it,  bad 
as  the  action  was,  it  insured  for  a  time  at  least  their  safe 
ty.  The  priest  thought  .they  had  started  westward  to 
join  Hast  and  Tita,  having  been  fascinated  by  what  they 
had  overheard  of  East's  letters. 

The  surmise  was  correct.  After  what  seemed  to  Anne 
very  long  delay,  a  letter  came ;  it  was  from  Hast.  The 
night  before,  two  dirty  little  tramps,  tired  and  hungry, 
with  clothes  soiled  and  torn,  had  opened  the  door  and 


ANNE.  359 

walked  in,  announcing  that  they  were  Louis  and  Gabriel, 
and  that  they  meant  to  stay.  They  had  asked  for  food, 
but  had  fallen  asleep  almost  before  they  could  eat  it.  With 
their  first  breath  that  morning  they  had  again  declared 
that  nothing  should  induce  them  to  return  eastward,  ei 
ther  to  the  island  or  to  Anne.  And  Hast  added  that  he 
thought  they  might  as  well  remain;  he  and  Tita  would 
take  charge  of  them.  After  a  few  days  came  a  letter  from 
the  boys  themselves,  printed  by  Louis.  In  this  document, 
brief  but  explicit,  they  sent  their  love,  but  declined  to  re 
turn.  If  Pere  Michaux  came  after  them,  they  would  run 
away  again,  and  this  time  no  one  should  ever  know 
where  they  were,  "exsep,  purhaps,  the  Mormons.1'1  With 
fchis  dark  threat  the  letter  ended. 

Pere  Michaux,  as  in  the  case  of  Tita,  took  the  matter 
into  his  own  hands.  He  wrote  to  Rast  to  keep  the  boys, 
and  find  some  regular  occupation  for  them  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  Anne's  ideas  about  them  had  always  been  rather 
Quixotic ;  he  doubted  whether  they  could  ever  have  been 
induced  to  attend  school  regularly.  But  now  they  would 
grow  to  manhood  in  a  region  where  such  natural  gifts  as 
they  possessed  would  be  an  advantage  to  them,  and  where, 
also,  their  deficiencies  would  not  be  especially  apparent. 
The  old  priest  rather  enjoyed  this  escapade.  He  consider 
ed  that  three  of  the  Douglas  children  were  now,  on  the 
whole,  well  placed,  and  that  Anne  was  freed  from  the 
hampering  responsibility  which  her  father's  ill-advised 
course  had  imposed  upon  .her.  He  sailed  round  his  wa 
ter  parish  with  brisker  zeal  than  ever,  although  in  truth 
he  was  very  lonely.  The  little  white  fort  was  empty ; 
even  Miss  Lois  was  gone ;  but  he  kept  himself  busy,  and 
read  his  old  classics  on  stormy  evenings  when  the  rain 
poured  down  on  his  low  roof. 

But  Anne  grieved. 

As  several  of  her  pupils  wished  to  continue  their  music 
lessons  during  the  vacation,  it  wTas  decided  by  Miss  Lois 
and  herself  that  she  should  remain  where  she  was  for  the 
present ;  the  only  cheer  she  had  was  in  the  hope  that  in 
autumn  Miss  Lois  and  the  little  boy  would  come  to  her. 
But  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  the  long  weeks  of  summer 


360  ANNE. 

stretched  before  her  like  a  desert;  in  her  lonely  rooms 
without  the  boys,  without  mademoiselle,  she  was  pursued 
by  a  silent  depression  unlike  anything  she  had  felt  before. 
She  fell  into  the  habit  of  allowing  herself  to  sit  alone  in 
the  darkness  through  the  evening  brooding  upon  the  past. 
The  kind-hearted  woman  who  kept  the  house,  in  whose 
charge  she  had  been  left  by  mademoiselle,  said  that  she 
was  "homesick." 

"How  can  one  be  homesick  who  has  no  home?"  an 
swered  the  girl,  smiling  sadly. 

One  day  the  principal  of  the  school  asked  her  if  she 

j  would  go  on  Saturdays  for  a  while,  and  assist  those  who 

j  were  at  work  in  the  Aid  Rooms  for  the  soldiers'  hospitals. 

!  Anne  consented  languidly;  but  once  within  the  dingy 
walls,  languor  vanished.  There  personal  sorrow  seemed 

!  small  in  the  presence  of  ghastly  lists  of  articles  required 
for  the  wounded  and  dying.  At  least  those  she  loved 
were  not  confronting  cannon.  Those  in  charge  of  the 
rooms  soon  learned  to  expect  her,  this  young  teacher,  a 
stranger  in  Weston,  who  with  a  settled  look  of  sadness  on 
her  fair  face  had  become  the  most  diligent  worker  there. 
She  came  more  regularly  after  a  time,  for  the  school  had 
closed,  the  long  vacation  begun. 

On  Sunday,  the  21st  of  July,  Anne  was  in  church ;  it 
was  a  warm  day ;  fans  waved,  soft  air  came  in  and  played 
around  the  heads  of  the  people,  who,  indolent  with  sum 
mer  ease,  leaned  back  comfortably,  and  listened  with 
drowsy  peacefulness  to  the  peaceful  sermon.  At  that 
very  moment,  on  a  little  mill-stream  near  Washington, 
men  were  desperately  fighting  the  first  great  battle  of  the 
war,  the  Sunday  battle  of  Bull  Run.  The  remnant  of 
the  Northern  army  poured  over  Long  Bridge  into  the  cap 
ital  during  all  that  night,  a  routed,  panic-stricken  mob. 

The  North  had  suffered  a  great  defeat ;  the  South  had 
gained  a  great  victory.  And  both  sides  paused. 

The  news  flashed  over  the  wires  and  into  Weston,  and 
the  town  was  appalled.  Never  in  the  four  long  years  that 
followed  was  there  again  a  day  so  filled  with  stern  aston 
ishment  to  the  entire  North  as  that  Monday  after  Bull 
Run.  The  Aid  Rooms,  where  Anne  worked  during  her 


ANNE.  361 

leisure  hours,  were  filled  with  helpers  now;  all  hearts 
were  excited  and  in  earnest.  West  Virginia  was  the  field 
to  which  their  aid  was  sent,  a  mountain  region  whose 
streams  were  raised  in  an  hour  into  torrents,  and  whose 
roads  were  often  long  sloughs  of  despond,  through  which 
the  soldiers  of  each  side  gloomily  pursued  each  other  by 
turns,  the  slowness  of  the  advancing  force  only  equalled 
by  that  of  the  pursued,  which  was  encountering  in  front 
the  same  disheartening  difficulties.  The  men  in  hospi 
tal  on  the  edges  of  this  region,  worn  out  with  wearying 
marches,  wounded  in  skirmishes,  stricken  down  by  the 
insidious  fever  which  haunts  the  river  valleys,  suffered 
as  much  as  those  who  had  the  names  of  great  battles 
wherewith  to  identify  themselves;  but  they  lacked  the 
glory. 

One  sultry  evening,  when  the  day's  various  labor  was 
ended,  Anne,  having  made  a  pretense  of  eating  in  her 
lonely  room,  went  across  to  the  bank  of  the  lake  to  watch 
the  sun  set  in  the  hazy  blue  water,  and  look  northward 
toward  the  island.  She  was  weary  and  sad :  where  were 
now  the  resolution  and  the  patience  with  which  she  had 
meant  to  crown  her  life  ?  You  did  not  know,  poor  Anne, 
when  you  framed  those  lofty  purposes,  that  suffering  is 
just  as  hard  to  bear  whether  one  is  noble  or  ignoble,  good 
or  bad.  In  the  face  of  danger  the  heart  is  roused,  and  in 
the  exaltation  of  determination  forgets  its  pain ;  it  is  the 
long  monotony  of  dangerless  days  that  tries  the  spirit 
hardest. 

A  letter  had  come  to  her  that  morning,  bearing  a  Bos 
ton  postmark ;  the  address  was  in  the  neat,  small  hand 
writing  of  Jeanne- Armande's  friend.  Anne,  remember 
ing  that  it  was  this  Boston  address  which  she  had  sent  to 
her  grandaunt,  opened  the  envelope  eagerly.  But  it  was 
only  the  formal  letter  of  a  lawyer.  Miss  Vanhorii  had 
died,  on  the  nineteenth  of  June,  in  Switzerland,  and  the 
lawyer  wrote  to  inform  "Miss  Anne  Douglas1'  that  a  cer 
tain  portrait,  said  in  the  will  to  be  that  of  ' '  Alida  Clans- 
sen,"  had  been  bequeathed  to  her  by  his  late  client,  and 
would  be  forwarded  to  her  address,  whenever  she  request 
ed  it.  Anne  had  expected  nothing,  not  even  this.  But 


362  ANNE. 

an  increased  solitariness  came  upon  her  as  she  thought  of 
that  cold  rigid  face  lying  under  the  turf  far  away  ic 
Switzerland — the  face  of  the  only  relative  left  to  her. 

The  sun  had  disappeared;  it  was  twilight.  The  few 
loiterers  on  the  bank  were  departing.  The  sound  of  car 
riage  wheels  roused  her,  and  turning  she  saw  that  a  car 
riage  had  approached,  and  that  three  persons  had  alight 
ed  and  were  coming  toward  her.  They  proved  to  be  the 
principal  of  the  school  and  the  president  of  the  Aid  Soci 
ety,  accompanied  by  one  of  her  associates.  They  had 
been  to  Anne's  home,  and  learning  where  she  was,  had 
followed  her.  It  seemed  that  one  of  the  city  physicians 
had  gone  southward  a  few  days  before  to  assist  in  the  reg 
imental  hospitals  on  the  border;  a  telegraphic  dispatch 
had  just  been  received  from  him,  urging  the  Aid  Society 
to  send  without  delay  three  or  four  nurses  to  that  fever- 
cursed  district,  where  men  were  dying  in  delirium  for 
want  of  proper  care.  It  was  the  first  personal  appeal 
which  had  come  to  Weston ;  the  young  Aid  Society  felt 
that  it  must  be  answered.  But  who  could  go  ?  Among 
the  many  workers  at  the  Aid  Rooms,  few  were  free; 
wives,  mothers,  and  daughters,  they  could  give  an  hour 
or  two  daily  to  the  work  of  love,  but  they  could  not  leave 
their  homes.  One  useful  woman,  a  nurse  by  profession, 
was  already  engaged ;  another,  a  lady  educated  and  re 
fined,  whose  hair  had  been  silvered  as  much  by  affliction 
as  by  age,  had  offered  to  go.  There  were  two,  then ;  but 
they  ought  to  send  four.  Many  had  been  asked  during 
that  afternoon,  but  without  success.  The  society  was  at 
its  wits'  end.  Then  some  one  thought  of  Miss  Douglas. 

She  was  young,  but  she  was  also  self-controlled  and 
physically  strong.  Her  inexperience  would  not  be  awk 
wardness  ;  she  would  obey  with  intelligence  and  firmness 
the  directions  given  her.  Under  the  charge  of  the  two 
older  women,  she  could  go — if  she  would ! 

It  would  be  but  for  a  short  time — two  weeks  only ;  at 
the  end  of  that  period  the  society  expected  to  relieve  these 
first  volunteers  with  regularly  engaged  and  paid  nurses. 
The  long  vacation  had  begun ;  as  teacher,  she  would  lose 
nothing ;  her  expenses  would  be  paid  by  the  society.  She 


ANNE.  363 

had  seemed  so  interested ;  it  would  not  be  much  more  to 
go  for  a  few  days  in  person ;  perhaps  she  would  even  be 
glad  to  go.  All  this  they  told  her  eagerly,  while  she  stood 
before  them  in  silence.  Then,  when  at  last  their  voices 
ceased,  and  they  waited  for  answer,  she  said,  slowly,  look 
ing  from  one  to  the  other:  "I  could  go,  if  it  were  not  for 
one  obstacle.  I  have  music  scholars,  and  I  can  not  af 
ford  to  lose  them.  I  am  very  poor." 

"They  will  gladly  wait  until  you  return,  Miss  Doug 
las,"  said  the  principal.  "When  it  is  known  where  you 
have  gone,  you  will  not  only  retain  all  your  old  scholars, 
but  gain  many  new  ones.  They  will  be  proud  of  their 
teacher." 

"  Yes,  proud !"  echoed  the  associate.  Again  Anne  re 
mained  silent;  she  was  thinking.  In  her  loneliness  she 
was  almost  glad  to  go.  Perhaps,  by  the  side  of  the  suf 
fering  and  the  dying,  she  could  learn  to  be  ashamed  of  be 
ing  so  down-hearted  and  miserable.  It  was  but  a  short  ab 
sence.  "Yes,  I  will  go, "she  said,  quietly.  And  then 
the  three  ladies  kissed  her,  and  the  associate,  who  was  of 
a  tearful  habit,  took  out  her  handkerchief.  "It  is  so 
sweet,  and  so— so  martial!"  she  sobbed. 

The  next  morning  they  started.  Early  as  it  was,  a  lit 
tle  company  had  gathered  to  see  them  off.  The  school 
girls  were  there,  half  in  grief,  half  in  pride,  over  what 
they  were  pleased  to  call  the  "heroism"  of  their  dear 
Miss  Douglas.  Mrs.  Green,  Anne's  landlady,  was  there 
in  her  Sunday  bonnet,  which  was,  however,  but  a  poor 
one.  These,  with  the  principal  of  the  school  and  the  oth 
er  teachers,  and  the  ladies  belonging  to  the  Aid  Society, 
made  quite  a  snowy  shower  of  white  handkerchiefs  as 
the  train  moved  out  from  the  station,  Anne's  young  face 
contrasting  with  the  strong  features  and  coarse  complex 
ion  of  Mary  Crane,  the  professional  nurse,  on  one  side, 
and  with  the  thin  cheeks  and  silver  hair  of  Mrs.  Barstow 
on  the  other,  as  they  stood  together  at  the  rear  door  of  the 
last  car.  ' '  Good-by !  good-by !"  called  the  school-girls  in 
tears,  and  the  ladies  of  the  Aid  Society  gave  a  shrill  lit 
tle  feminine  cheer.  They  were  away. 


364  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  When  we  remember  how  they  died — 
In  dark  ravine  and  on  the  mountain-side, .  .  „  0 

How  their  dear  lives  were  spent 
By  lone  lagoons  and  streams, 
In  the  weary  hospital  tent, .... 

...  .it  seems 
Ignoble  to  be  alive !" 

— THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

THE  three  nurses  travelled  southward  by  railway, 
steamboat,  and  wagon.  On  the  evening-  of  the  third  day 
they  came  to  the  first  hospital,  having  been  met  at  the 
river  by  an  escort,  and  safely  guided  across  a  country  fair 
with  summer  and  peaceful  to  the  eye,  but  harassed  by 
constant  skirmishing — the  guerrilla  warfare  that  deso 
lated  that  border  during  the  entire  war.  The  houses  they 
passed  looked  home-like  and  quiet ;  if  the  horses  had  been 
stolen  and  the  barns  pillaged,  at  least  nothing  of  it  ap 
peared  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  the  still  August  day. 
At  the  door  of  the  hospital  they  were  welcomed  cordial 
ly,  and  within  the  hour  they  were  at  work,  Anne  timid 
ly,  the  others  energetically.  Mary  Crane  had  the  worst 
cases;  then  followed  Mrs.  Barstow.  To  Anne  was  given 
what  was  called  the  light  work;  none  of  her  patients 
were  in  danger.  The  men  here  had  all  been  stricken 
down  by  fever ;  there  Avere  no  wounded.  During  the 
next  day  and  evening,  however,  stories  began  to  come  to 
the  little  post,  brought  by  the  country  people,  that  a  battle 
had  been  fought  farther  up  the  valley  toward  the  mount 
ains,  and  that  Hospital  Number  Two  was  filled  with 
wounded  men,  many  of  them  lying  on  the  hard  floor 
because  there  were  not  beds  enough,  unattended  and  suf 
fering  because  there  were  no  nurses.  Aime,  who  had 


ANNE.  365 

worked  ardently  all  day,  chafing-  and  rebelling  in  spirit  at 
the  sight  of  suffering  which  could  have  been  soothed  by 
a  few  of  the  common  luxuries  abundant  in  almost  every 
house  in  Westoii,  felt  herself  first  awed,  then  chilled,  by 
this  picture  of  far  worse  agony  beyond,  whose  details 
were  pitilessly  painted  in  the  plain  rough  words  of  the 
country  people.  She  went  to  the  door  and  looked  up  the 
valley.  The  river  wound  slowly  along,  broad,  yellow, 
and  shining ;  it  came  from  the  mountains,  but  from  where 
she  stood  she  could  see  only  round-topped  hills.  While 
she  was  still  wistfully  gazing,  a  soldier  011  horseback  rode 
up  to  the  door  and  dismounted ;  it  was  a  messenger  from 
Number  Two,  urgently  asking  for  help. 

"Under  the  circumstances,  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  re 
fuse,"  said  the  surgeon  of  Number  One,  with  some  annoy 
ance  in  his  tone,  ' '  because  none  of  my  men  are  wound 
ed.  People  never  stop  to  think  that  fever  is  equally 
dangerous.  I  was  just  congratulating  myself  upon  a  lit 
tle  satisfactory  work.  However,  I  shall  have  to  yield,  I 
suppose.  I  can  not  send  you  all ;  but  I  ought  to  spare 
two,  at  least  for  some  days.  Mary  Crane  of  course  can  do 
the  most  good ;  and  as  Miss  Douglas  can  not  be  left  here 
alone,  perhaps  it  would  be  best  that  she  should  go  with 
Mary." 

"You  retain  Mrs.  Barstow  here  ?"  asked  Anne. 

"Yes;  I  have,  indeed,  110  choice.  You  are  too  young 
to  be  retained  alone.  I  suppose  you  are  willing  ?  (Wo 
men  always  are  wild  for  a  change !)  Make  ready,  then ; 
I  shall  send  you  forward  to-night. "  The  surgeon  of  Num 
ber  One  was  a  cynic. 

At  nine  o'clock  they  started.  The  crescent  of  a  young 
moon  showed  itself  through  the  light  clouds,  which,  low 
as  .mist,  hung  over  the  valley.  Nothing  stirred ;  each 
leaf  hung  motionless  from  its  branchlet  as  they  passed. 
Even  the  penetrating  sing-song  chant  of  the  summer  in 
sects  was  hushed,  and  the  smooth  river  as  they  followed 
its  windings  made  no  murmur.  They  were  in  a  light 
wagon,  with  an  escort  of  two  mounted  men. 

"If  you  go  beyond  Number  Two,  you'll  have  to  take  to 
horseback,  I  reckon,"  said  their  driver,  a  countryman, 


36G  ANNE. 

who,  without  partisan  feeling  as  to  the  two  sides  of  the 
contest,  held  on  with  a  tight  grip  to  his  horses,  and  im 
partially  "did  teaming"  for  both. 

"Is  there  still  another  hospital  beyond?"  inquired 
Anne. 

' '  Yes,  there's  Peterson's,  a  sorter  hospital ;  it's  up  in  the 
mountains.  And  heaps  of  sick  fellers  there  too,  the  last 
time  I  was  up." 

"It  does  not  belong  to  this  department,"  said  Mary 
Crane. 

"I  reckon  they  suffer  pooty  much  the  same,  no  mat 
ter  where  they  belong,"  replied  the  driver,  flicking  the 
wheel  reflectively  with  his  whip-lash.  "There  was  a 
feller  up  at  Number  Two  the  other  day  as  hadn't  any 
face  left  to  speak  of;  yet  he  was  alive,  and  quite  peart." 

Anne  shuddered. 

"There  now,  hold  up,  won't  you?"  said  Mary  Crane. 
"This  young  lady  ain't  a  real  nurse,  as  I  am,  and  such 
stories  make  her  feel  faint." 

"If  she  ain't  a  real  nurse,  what  made  her  come  ?"  said 
the  man,  glancing  at  Amie  with  dull  curiosity. 

"  'Twas  just  goodness,  and  the  real  downright  article 
of  patriotism,  I  guess,"  said  the  hearty  nurse,  smiling. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Anne ;  "  I  was  lonely  and  sad,  and  glad 
to  come." 

"It doos  kinder  rouse  one  up  to  see  a  lot  of  men  hit  in 
all  sorts  of  ways,  legs  and  arms  and  everything  flying 
round,"  remarked  the  driver,  as  if  approving  Anne's  se 
lection  of  remedies  for  loneliness. 

They  readied  Number  Two  at  dawn,  and  found  the 
wounded  in  rows  upon  the  floor  of  the  barn  dignified  by 
the  name  of  hospital.  There  had  been  no  attempt  to 
classify  them  after  the  few  beds  were  filled.  One  poor 
torn  fragment  of  humanity  breathed  his  last  as  the  nurses 
entered,  another  an  hour  later.  Mary  Crane  set  herself 
to  work  with  ready  skill ;  Anne,  after  going  outside  two 
or  three  times  to  let  her  tears  flow  unseen  over  the  sor 
rowful  sights,  was  able  to  assist  in  taking  care  of  two 
kinds  of  cases — those  who  were  the  least  hurt  and  those 
who  were  beyond  hope,  the  slightly  wounded  and  the 


ANNE.  36? 

dying-.  One  man,  upon  whose  face  was  the  gray  shadow 
of  death,  asked  her  in  a  whisper  to  write  a  letter  for  him. 
She  found  paper  and  pen,  and  sat  down  beside  the  bed 
to  receive  his  farewell  message  to  his  wife  and  children. 
' '  And  tell  little  Jim  he  must  grow  up  and  be  a  comfort 
to  his  mother,"  he  murmured ;  and  then  turning  his  quiet 
gaze  slowly  upon  the  nurse :  ' '  His  mother  is  only  twenty- 
two  years  old  now,  miss.  I  expect  she'll  feel  bad,  Mary 
will,  when  she  hears."  Poor  young  wife!  The  simple 
country  phraseology  covered  as  much  sorrow  as  the  finest 
language  of  the  schools.  During  the  night  the  man  died. 

The  new  nurses  remained  at  Number  Two  six  days. 
Anne's  work  consisted  principally  in  relieving  Mary 
Crane  at  dawn,  and  keeping  the  watch  through  the  early 
morning  hours  while  she  slept ;  for  the  head  surgeon  and 
Mary  would  not  allow  her  to  watch  at  night.  The  sur 
geon  had  two  assistants ;  with  one  of  these  silent  old  men 
(they  were  both  gray-haired)  she  kept  watch  while  the  sun 
rose  slowly  over  the  hill-tops,  while  the  birds  twittered, 
and  the  yellow  butterflies  came  dancing  through  the  open 
doors  and  windows,  over  the  heads  of  the  poor  human 
sleepers.  But  Number  Two  had  greater  ease  now.  The 
hopelessly  wounded  were  all  at  rest,  their  sufferings  in 
this  life  over.  Those  who  were  left,  in  time  would  see 
health  again. 

On  the  seventh  day  a  note  came  to  the  surgeon  in 
charge  from  the  temporary  hospital  at  Peterson's  Mill, 
asking  for  medicines.  ' '  If  you  can  possibly  spare  us  one 
or  two  nurses  for  a  few  days,  pray  do  so.  In  all  my  ex 
perience  I  have  never  been  so  hard  pushed  as  now," 
wrote  the  other  surgeon.  "  The  men  here  are  all  down 
with  the  fever,  and  I  and  my  assistant  are  almost  crazed 
with  incessant  night-work.  If  we  could  be  relieved  for 
one  night  even,  it  would  be  God's  charity. " 

The  surgeon  of  Number  Two  read  this  note  aloud  to 
Anne  as  they  stood  by  a  table  eating  their  hasty  break 
fast.  "  It  is  like  the  note  you  sent  to  us  at  Number  One," 
she  said. 

"Oh  no;  that  was  different,  /never  send  and  take 
away  other  people's  nurses,"  said  Dr.  Janes,  laughingly. 


368  ANNE. 

"I  should  like  to  go,"  she  said,  after  a  moment. 

1 '  You  should  like  to  go  ?  I  thought  you  were  so 
much  interested  here." 

' '  So  I  am ;  but  after  what  I  have  seen,  I  am  haunted 
by  the  thought  that  there  may  be  worse  suffering  beyond. 
That  is  the  reason  I  came  here.  But  the  men  here  are 
more  comfortable  now,  and  those  who  were  suffering 
hopelessly  have  been  relieved  forever  from  earthly  pain. 
If  we  are  not  needed,  some  of  us  ought  to  go." 

' '  But  if  we  pass  you  on  in  this  way  from  post  to  post, 
we  shall  get  you  entirely  over  the  mountains,  and  into 
the  Department  of  the  Potomac,  Miss  Douglas.  What 
you  say  is  true  enough,  but  at  present  I  refuse.  I  simply 
can  not  spare  you  two.  If  they  should  send  us  a  nurse 
from  Rivertown  as  they  promised,  we  might  get  along 
without  you  for  a  while;  but  not  now.  Charity,  you 
know,  begins  at  home." 

Anne  sighed,  but  acquiesced.  The  surgeon  knew  best. 
But  during  that  day,  not  only  did  the  promised  nurse  from 
the  Rivertown  Aid  Society  arrive,  but  with  her  a  volun 
teer  assistant,  a  young  girl,  her  face  flushed  with  exalta 
tion  and  excitement  over  the  opportunity  afforded  her  to 
help  and  comfort ' '  our  poor  dear  wounded  heroes."  The 
wounded  heroes  were  not  poetical  in  appearance;  they 
were  simply  a  row  of  ordinary  sick  men,  bandaged  in  va 
rious  ways,  often  irritable,  sometimes  profane ;  their 
grammar  was  defective,  and  they  cared  more  for  tobacco 
than  for  texts,  or  even  poetical  quotations.  The  young 
nurse  would  soon  have  her  romance  rudely  dispelled. 
But  as  there  was  good  stuff  in  her,  she  would  do  useful 
work  yet,  although  shorn  of  many  illusions.  The  other 
woman  was  a  professional  nurse,  whose  services  were 
paid  for  like  those  of  Mary  Crane. 

"  Noiv  may  we  go  ?"  said  Anne,  when  the  new  nurse 
had  been  installed. 

Dr.  Janes,  loath  to  consent,  yet  ashamed,  as  he  said 
himself,  of  his  own  greediness,  made  no  long  opposition, 
and  the  countryman  with  the  non-partisan  horses  was 
engaged  to  take  them  to  Peterson's  Mill.  For  this  part 
of  the  road  no  escort  was  required.  They  travelled  in 


ANNE.  369 

the  wagon  for  ten  miles.  Here  the  man  stopped,  took  the 
harness  from  the  horses,  replaced  it  with  two  side-saddles 
which  he  had  brought  with  him,  drew  the  wagon  into  a 
ravine  safely  out  of  sight,  effaced  the  trace  of  the  wheels, 
and  then  wiping  his  forehead  after  his  exertions,  an 
nounced  that  he  was  ready.  Anne  had  never  been  on 
horseback  in  her  life.  Mary  Crane,  who  would  have 
mounted  a  camel  imperturbably  if  it  came  into  the  line  of 
her  business,  climbed  up  sturdily  by  the  aid  of  a  stump, 
and  announced  that  she  felt  herself  "quite  solid."  The 
horse  seemed  to  agree  with  her.  Anne  followed  her  ex 
ample,  and  being  without  physical  nervousness,  she  soon 
became  accustomed  to  the  motion,  and  even  began  to  im 
agine  how  exhilarating  it  would  be  to  ride  rapidly  over  a 
broad  plain,  feeling  the  wind  on  her  face  as  she  flew  along. 
But  the  twro  old  brown  horses  had  no  idea  of  flying. 
They  toiled  patiently  every  day,  and  sometimes  at  night 
as  well,  now  for  one  army,  now  for  the  other ;  but  no 
thing  could  make  them  quicken  their  pace.  In  the 
present  case  they  were  not  asked  to  do  it,  since  the  road 
was  but  a  bridle-path  through  the  ravines  and  over  the 
hills  which  formed  the  flank  of  the  mountains  they  were 
approaching,  and  the  driver  was  following  them  on  foot. 
The  ascents  grew  steeper,  the  ravines  deeper  and  wilder. 

"  I  no  longer  see  the  mountains,"  said  Anne. 

"  That's  because  you're  in  'em,"  answered  the  driver. 

At  night-fall  they  reached  their  destination.  It  was 
a  small  mountain  mill,  in  a  little  green  valley  which 
nestled  confidingly  among  the  wild  peaks  as  though  it 
was  not  afraid  of  their  roughness.  Within  were  the  fe- 
.ver  patients,  and  the  tired  surgeon  and  his  still  more  tired 
assistant  could  hardly  believe  their  good  fortune  when  the 
two  nurses  appeared.  The  assistant,  a  tall  young  medi 
cal  student  who  had  not  yet  finished  growing,  ^  made  his 
own  bed  of  hay  and  a  coverlet  so  hungrily  iii  a  dusky 
corner  that  Anne  could  not  help  smiling ;  the  poor  fel 
low  was  fairly  gaunt  from  loss  of  sleep,  and  had  been 
obliged  to  walk  up  and  down  during  the  whole  of  the 
previous  night  to  keep  himself  awake.  The  surgeon, 
who  was  older  and  more  hardened,  explained  to  Mary 
24 


370  ANNE. 

Crane  the  condition  of  the  men,  and  gave  her  careful  di 
rections  for  the  night;  then  he  too  disappeared.  Anne 
and  Mary  moved  about  softly,  and  when  everything  was 
ready,  sat  down  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room  to  keep 
the  vigil.  If  the  men  were  restless,  Mary  was  to  attend 
to  them  ;  Anne  was  the  subordinate,  merely  obeying 
Mary's  orders.  The  place  was  dimly  lighted  by  two  can 
dles  set  in  bottles ;  the  timbers  above  were  festooned  with 
cobwebs  whitened  with  meal,  and  the  floor  was  covered 
with  its  fine  yellow  dust.  A  large  spider  came  slowly 
out  from  behind  a  beam  near  by.  and  looked  at  Anne ;  at 
least  she  thought  he  did.  He  was  mealy  too,  and  she  fell 
to  wondering  whether  he  missed  the  noise  of  the  wheel, 
and  whether  he  asked  himself  what  all  these  men  meant 
by  coining  in  and  lying  down  in  rows  upon  his  floor  to 
disturb  his  peacef  uliiess.  At  sunrise  the  surgeon  came 
in,  but  he  was  obliged  to  shake  the  student  roughly  be 
fore  he  could  awaken  him  from  his  heavy  slumber.  It 
was  not  until  the  third  day  that  the  poor  youth  lost  the 
half-mad  expression  which  had  shone  in  his  haggard  face 
when  they  arrived,  and  began  to  look  as  though  he  was 
composed  of  something  besides  big  jaws,  gaunt  cheeks, 
and  sunken  eyes,  which  had  seemed  to  be  all  there  was 
of  him  besides  bones  when  they  first  came. 

The  fever  patients  at  Peterson's  Mill  were  not  Western 
men,  like  the  inmates  of  Number  One  and  Number  Two ; 
they  belonged  to  two  New  York  regiments.  Mary  Crane 
did  excellent  work  among  them,  her  best;  her  systematic 
watchfulness,  untiring  vigilance,  and  strict  rules  shook 
the  hold  of  the  fever,  and  in  many  cases  routed  the  dismal 
spectre,  and  brought  the  victims  triumphantly  back  to 
hope  of  health  again. 

One  morning  Anne,  having  written  a  letter  for  one  of 
the  men,  was  fanning  him  as  he  lay  in  his  corner ;  the 
doors  were  open,  but  the  air  w^as  sultry.  The  man  was 
middle-aged  and  gaunt,  his  skin  was  yellow  and  lifeless, 
his  eyes  sunken.  Yet  the  surgeon  pronounced  him  out 
of  danger ;  it  was  now  merely  a  question  of  care,  patience, 
and  nourishment.  The  poor  mill-hospital  had  so  little  for 
its  sick !  But  boxes  from  the  North  were  at  last  beginning 


ANNE.  371 

to  penetrate  even  these  defiles ;  one  had  arrived  during 
the  previous  night,  having  been  dragged  on  a  rude  sledge 
over  places  where  wheels  could  not  go,  by  the  non-parti- 
saii  horses,  which  were  now  on  their  patient  way  with  a 
load  of  provisions  to  a  detachment  of  Confederates  camp 
ed,  or  rather  mired,  in  the  southern  part  of  the  county. 
The  contents  of  that  box  had  made  the  mill-hospital 
glad  ;  the  yellow  -  faced  skeleton  whom  Anne  was  fan 
ning  had  tasted  lemons  at  last,  and  almost  thought  he  was 
in  heaven.  Revived  and  more  hopeful,  he  had  been  talk 
ing  to  his  nurse.  "I  should  feel  easier,  miss,  if  I  knew 
just  where  our  captain  was.  You  see,  there  was  a  sort  of 
a  scrimmage,  and  some  of  us  got  hurt.  He  wasn't  hurt, 
but  he  was  took  down  with  the  fever,  and  so  bad  that  we 
had  to  leave  him  behind  at  a  farm  -  house.  And  I've 
heard  nothing  since." 

"  Where  was  he  left— far  from  here  ?" 

"No;  sing'lerly  enough,  'twas  the  very  next  valley  to 
this  one.  We  went  in  half  a  dozen  directions  after  that, 
and  tramped  miles  in  the  mud,  but  he  was  left  there. 
We  put  him  in  charge  of  a  woman,  who  said  she'd  take 
care  of  him,  but  I  misdoubt  her.  She  was  a  meaching- 
looking  creature." 

' '  Probably,  then,  as  you  have  heard  nothing,  he  has  re 
covered,  and  is  with  his  regiment  again,"  said  Anne,  with 
the  cheerful  optimism  which  is  part  of  a  nurse's  duty. 

"Yes,  miss.  And  yet  perhaps  he  ain't,  you  know.  I 
thought  mebbe  you'd  ask  the  surgeon  for  me.  I'm  only 
a  straggler  here,  anyway ;  the  others  don't  belong  to  my 
regiment.  Heathcote  was  the  name ;  Captain  Ward 
Heathcote.  A  city  feller  he  was,  but  wuth  a  heap,  for  all 
that." 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  nurse  that  she  turned  so 
pale  ?  And  now  she  was  gone !  And  without  leaving  the 
fan  too.  However,  he  could  hardly  have  held  it.  He 
found  his  little  shred  of  lemon,  lifted  it  to  his  dry  lips, 
and  closed  his  eyes  patiently,  hardly  remembering  even 
what  he  had  said. 

Meanwhile  Anne,  still  very  pale,  had  drawn  the  sur 
geon  outside  the  door,  and  was  questioning  him.  Yes, 


372  ANNE. 

he  knew  that  an  officer  had  been  left  at  a  farm-house 
over  in  the  next  valley ;  he  had  been  asked  to  ride  over 
and  see  him.  But  how  could  he !  As  nothing  had  been 
heard  from  him  since,  however,  he  was  probably  well  by 
this  time,  and  back  with  his  regiment  again. 

"Probably" — the  very  word  she  had  herself  used  when 
answering  the  soldier.  How  inactive  and  cowardly  it 
seemed  now !  "  I  must  go  across  to  this  next  valley, "  she 
said. 

"My  dear  Miss  Douglas!"  said  Dr.  Flower,  a  grave, 
portly  man,  whose  ideas  moved  as  slowly  as  his  small  fat- 
encircled  eyes. 

* '  I  know  a  Mr.  Heathcote ;  this  may  be  the  same  per 
son.  The  Mr.  Heathcote  I  know  is  engaged  to  a  friend 
of  mine,  a  lady  to  whom  I  am  much  indebted.  I  must 
learn  whether  this  officer  in  the  next  valley  is  he." 

"  But  even  if  it  is  the  same  man,  no  doubt  he  is  doing 
well  over  there.  Otherwise  we  should  have  heard  from 
them  before  this  time,"  said  the  surgeon,  sensibly. 

But  Anne  did  not  stop  at  sense.  "It  is  probable,  but 
not  certain.  There  must  be  no  room  for  doubt.  If  you 
will  ride  over,  I  will  stay.  Otherwise  I  must  go." 

"I  can  not  leave;  it  is  impossible." 

"  Where  can  I  procure  a  horse,  then  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  allow  it,  Miss  Douglas. 
It  is  nearly  fifteen  miles  to  the  next  valley;  of  course 
you  can  not  go  alone,  and  I  can  not  spare  Mary  Crane  to 
go  with  you."  The  surgeon  spoke  decidedly;  he  had 
daughters  of  his  own  at  home,  and  felt  himself  responsi 
ble  for  this  young  nurse. 

Anne  looked  at  him.  "Oh,  do  help  me!"  she  cried, 
with  an  outburst  of  sudden  emotion.  "I  must  go ;  even 
if  I  go  alone,  and  walk  every  step  of  the  way,  I  must, 
must  go!" 

Dr.  Caleb  Flower  was  a  slow  man ;  but  anything  he 
had  once  learned  he  remembered.  He  now  recognized 
the  presence  of  what  he  called  ' '  one  of  those  intense  im 
pulses  which  make  even  timid  women  for  the  time  being 
inflexible  as  adamant." 

"You  will  have  to  pay  largely  for  horses  and  a  guide," 


AXXE.  373 

he  said,  in  order  to  gain  time,  inwardly  regretting  mean 
while  that  he  had  not  the  power  to  tie  this  nurse  to  her 
chair. 

' '  I  have  a  little  money  with  me. " 

"But  even  if  horses  are  found,  you  can  not  go  alone; 
and,  as  I  said  before,  I  can  not  spare  Mary.'' 

"Why  would  not  Diana  do  ?"  said  Anne. 

"Diana!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Flower,  his  lips  puckering  as 
if  to  form  a  long  whistle. 

Diana  was  a  middle-aged  negro  woman,  who,  with  her 
husband,  July,  lived  in  a  cabin  near  the  mill,  acting  as 
laundress  for  the  hospital.  She  was  a  silent,  austere  wo 
man  ;  in  her  there  was  little  of  the  light-heartedness  and 
plenitude  of  person  which  generally  belong  to  her  race. 
A  devout  Baptist,  quoting  more  texts  to  the  sick  soldiers 
than  they  liked  when  she  was  employed  in  the  hospital, 
chanting  hymns  in  a  low  voice  wrhile  hanging  out  the 
clothes,  Diana  had  need  of  her  austerity,  industry,  and 
leanness  to  balance  July,  who  was  the  most  light-hearted, 
lazy,  and  rotund  negro  in  the  mountains. 

"But  you  know  that  Mary  Crane  has  orders  not  to 
leave  you  ?"  said  Dr.  Flower. 

"I  did  not  know  it." 

"  Yes;  so  she  tells  me.  The  ladies  of  the  Aid  Society 
who  sent  her  arranged  it.  And  I  wish  with  all  my  heart 
that  our  other  young  nurses  were  as  well  taken  care  of !" 
added  the  surgeon,  a  comical  expression  coming  into  his 
small  eyes. 

"On  ordinary  occasions  I  would  not,  of  course,  in 
terfere  with  these  orders, "  said  Anne,  ' '  but  011  this  I  must. 
You  must  trust  me  with  Diana,  doctor — Diana  and  July. 
They  will  take  good  care  of  me." 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  yield,  Miss  Douglas.  But 
I  regret,  regret  exceedingly,  that  I  have  not  full  authori 
ty  over  you.  I  feel  it  necessary  to  say  formally  that 
your  going  is  against  my  wishes  and  my  advice.  And 
now,  since  you  will  have  your  own  way  in  any  case,  I 
must  do  what  I  can  for  you." 

An  hour  later,  two  mules  were  ascending  the  mount 
ain-side,  following  an  old  trail;  Anne  was  on  one,  the 


374  ANNE. 

tall  grave  Diana  on  the  other.  July  walked  in  front, 
with  his  gun  over  his  shoulder. 

"No  danjah  hyah,"  he  assured  them  volubly;  "sol 
diers  doan'  come  up  dis  yer  way  at  all.  Dey  go  draggin' 
'long  in  de  mud  below  always;  seem  to  like  'em." 

But  Anne  was  not  thinking  of  danger.  "Could  we 
not  go  faster  by  the  road?"  she  asked. 

"'Spec's  we  could,  miss.  But  wudn't  darst  to,  ef  I 
was  you." 

' '  No,  no,  miss, "  said  Diana.  ' '  Best  keep  along  in  dese 
yere  woods;  dey's  safe." 

The  hours  were  endless.  At  last  it  seemed  to  Anne  as 
if  they  were  not  moving  at  all,  but  merely  sitting  still  in 
their  saddles,  while  a  continuous  procession  of  low  trees 
and  high  bushes  filed  slowly  past  them,  now  pointing  up 
ward,  now  slanting  downward,  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  ground.  In  reality  they  were  moving  forward, 
crossing  a  spur  of  the  mountain,  but  so  dense  was  the  fo 
liage  of  the  thicket,  and  so  winding  the  path,  that  they 
could  not  see  three  feet  in  any  direction,  and  all  sense  of 
advance  was  therefore  lost.  Anne  fell  into  a  mental 
lethargy,  which  was  troubled  every  now  and  then  by  that 
strange  sense  of  having  seen  particular  objects  before 
which  occasionally  haunts  the  brain.  Now  it  was  a  tree, 
now  a  bird ;  or  was  it  that  she  had  known  July  in  some 
far-off  anterior  existence,  and  that  he  had  kicked  a  stone 
from  his  path  in  precisely  that  same  way  ? 

It  was  late  twilight  when,  after  a  long  descent  still 
shrouded  in  the  interminable  thicket,  the  path  came  out 
suddenly  upon  a  road,  and  Anne's  eyes  seemed  to  herself 
to  expand  as  the  view  expanded.  She  saw  a  valley,  the 
gray  smoothness  of  water,  and  here  and  there  roofs. 
July  had  stopped  the  mules  in  the  shadow. 

"Can  you  tell  me  which  house  it  mought  be,  miss?" 
he  asked,  in  a  low,  cautious  tone. 

"No,'"  replied  Anne.  "But  the  person  I  am  trying  to 
find  is  named  Heathcote — Captain  Heathcote.  We  must 
make  inquiries." 

"Now  do  be  keerful,  miss,"  urged  July,  keeping  Anne's 


"JULY    WALKED    IN    FRONT,  WITH   HIS    GUN   OVER   HIS   SHOULDER." 


ANNE.  375 

mule  back.      "I'll  jes'  go  and  peer  roun'  a  bit.     But  you 
stay  hyar  with  Di." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Diana.  "  We'll  go  back  in  de  woods 
a  piece,  and  wait.  July  '11  fin'  out  all  about  'em." 

Whether  willingly  or  unwillingly,  Anne  was  obliged, 
to  yield;  the  two  women  rode  back  into  the  woods,  and 
July  stole  away  cautiously  upon  his  errand. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  he  returned ;  Anne  had  dis 
mounted,  and  was  walking  impatiently  to  and  fro  in  the 
warm  darkness. 

"Found  'em,  miss,'1  said  July.  "But  it's  d'ar  'cross 
de  valley.  Howsomever,  valley's  safe,  dey  say,  and  you 
can  ride  right  along  ober." 

"  Was  it  Mr.  Heathcote  f '  said  Anne,  as  the  mules  trot 
ted  down  a  cross-road  and  over  a  bridge,  July  keeping  up 
with  a  long  loping  run. 

"Yes,  miss;  Heathcote's  de  name.  I  saw  him,  and 
moughty  sick  he  looked." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Fever's  in  him  head,  miss,  and  didn't  say  nothing. 
Senses  clean  done  gone." 

Arm  ft  had  not  thought  of  this;  it  changed  her  task  at 
once.  He  would  not  know  her ;  she  could  do  all  that  was 
necessary  in  safety,  and  then  go  unrecognized  away. 
* '  What  will  he  say  ?"  she  had  asked  herself  a  thousand 
times.  Now,  he  would  say  nothing,  and  all  would  be 
simple  and  easy. 

"Dis  yere's  de  place,11  said  July,  pausing. 

It  was  a  low  farm-house  with  a  slanting  roof;  there 
was  a  light  in  the  window,  and  the  door  stood  open. 
Anne,  springing  from  her  saddle,  and  followed  by  Diana, 
hastened  up  the  little  garden  path.  At  first  there  seemed 
to  be  no  one  in  the  room  into  which  the  house  door  open 
ed  ;  then  a  slight  sound  behind  a  curtain  in  one  corner 
attracted  her  attention,  and  going  across,  she  drew  aside 
the  drapery.  The  head  moving  restlessly  to  and  fro  on 
the  pillow,  with  closed  eyes  and  drawn  mouth,  was  that 
of  Ward  Heathcote. 

She  spoke  his  name;  tlie  eyes  opened  and  rested  upon 
her,  but  there  was  no  recognition  in  the  glance. 


376  ANNfe 

" Bless  you!  his  senses  has  been  gone  for  days,"  said 
the  farmer's  wife,  coming  up  behind  her  and  looking  at 
her  patient  impartially.  "He  don't  know  nobody  no 
more'n  a  day-old  baby !" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  tends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come : 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom." 

— SHAKSPEARE. 

"WHY  did  you  not  send  across  to  the  hospital  at  the 
mill?"  said  Anne.  "Dr.  Flower,  receiving  no  second 
message,  supposed  that  Captain  Heathcote  had  recovered." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  reckon  I  know  as  much  about  this 
yer  fever  as  the  doctors  do  as  never  had  it,"  replied  Mrs. 
Redd.  "The  captain  couldn't  be  moved  ;  that  was  plain 
as  day.  And  we  hadn't  a  horse,  nuther.  Our  horse  and 
mules  have  all  been  run  off  and  stole." 

Mrs.  Redd  was  a  clay-colored  woman,  with  a  figure 
which,  cavernous  in  front,  was  yet  so  rounded  out  behind 
that  if  she  could  have  turned  her  head  round  she  would 
have  been  very  well  shaped.  Her  knowledge  of  the  fe 
ver  was  plainly  derived  from  personal  experience ;  she  ex 
plained  that  she  had  it  "by  spells,"  and  that  "  Redd  he 
has  it  too, "  and  their  daughter  Nancy  as  well.  ' '  Redd  he 
isn't  to  home  now,  nor  Nancy  nuther.  But  Redd  he'll 
be  back  by  to-morrow  night,  I  reckon.  If  you  want  to 
stay,  I  can  accommodate  you.  You  can  have  the  loft, 
and  the  niggers  can  sleep  in  the  barn.  But  they'll  hav.e 
to  cook  for  themselves.  I  shall  be  mighty  glad  to  have 
some  help  in  tending  on  the  captain ;  I'm  about  wore  out. " 

Mrs.  Redd  did  not  mention  that  she  had  confiscated  the 
sick  man's  money,  and  hidden  it  safely  away  in  an  old 
tea-pot,  and  that  all  her  knowledge  of  arithmetic  was  at 


K.  ft.  Fletcher. 

^ANNE.  377 

work  keeping-  a  daily  account  of  expenses  which  should 
in  the  end  exactly  balance  the  sum.  She  had  no  inten 
tion  of  stealing  the  money — certainly  not.  But  of  course 
her  ' '  just  account"  must  be  paid.  She  could  still  work  at 
this  problem,  she  thought,  and  earn  something  as  well 
from  the  new-comers,  who  would  also  relieve  her  from 
all  care  of  the  sick  man :  it  was  clearly  a  providence.  In 
the  glow  of  this  expected  gain  she  even  prepared  supper. 
Fortunately  in  summer  her  kitchen  was  in  the  open  air, 
and  the  room  where  Heathcote  lay  was  left  undisturbed. 

Anne  had  brought  the  hospital  medicines  with  her, 
and  careful  instructions  from  Mary  Crane.  If  she  had 
come  upon  Heathcote  before  her  late  experiences,  she 
would  have  felt  little  hope,  but  men  whose  strength  had 
been  far  more  reduced  than  his  had  recovered  under  her 
eyes.  Diana  was  a  careful  nurse ;  July  filled  the  place  of 
valet,  sleeping  on  straw  on  the  floor.  She  ordered  down 
the  bed-curtains  and  opened  all  the  windows ;  martial  law 
regarding  air,  quiet,  and  medicines  was  proclaimed.  The 
sick  man  lay  quietly,  save  for  the  continued  restless  mo 
tion  of  his  head. 

"  If  we  could  only  stop  his  slipping  his  head  across  and 
back  in  that  everlasting  way,  I  believe  he'd  be  better 
right  off,"  said  Mrs.  Redd. 

"It  done  him  good,  'pears  to  me,"  said  July,  who  al 
ready  felt  a  strong  affection  in  his  capacious  vagabond 
izing  heart  for  the  stranger  committed  to  his  care.  "  Yo1 
see,  it  kinder  rests  his  mind  like." 

"Much  mind  he's  got  to  rest  with!"  said  Mrs.  Redd, 
contemptuously. 

With  her  two  assistants,  it  was  not  necessary  that  Anne 
should  remain  in  the  room  at  night,  and  she  did  not,  at 
least  in  personal  presence ;  but  every  half -hour  she  was 
at  the  top  of  the  stairway,  silently  watching  to  see  if 
Diana  fulfilled  her  duties.  On  the  third  day  the  new 
medicines  and  the  vigilance  conquered.  On  the  fifth  day 
the  sick  man  fell  into  his  first  natural  slumber.  The 
house  was  very  still.  Bees  droned  serenely.  There  was 
no  breeze.  Anne  was  sitting  on  the  door-steps.  ' '  Ought 
I  to  go  now  before  he  wakens  ?"  she  was  thinking.  ' '  But 


378  ANNE. 

I  can  not  until  the  danger  is  surely  over.  He  may  not 
recognize  me  even  now."  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
would  stay  a  short  time  longer,  but  without  entering  the 
room  where  he  was ;  Diana  could  come  to  her  for  orders, 
and  the  others  must  not  allude  to  her  presence.  Then, 
as  soon  as  she  was  satisfied  that  his  recovery  was  certain, 
she  could  slip  away  unseen.  She  went  round  to  the 
back  of  the  house  to  warn  the  others  ;  it  was  all  to  go 
on  as  though  she  was  not  there. 

Heathcote  wakened  at  last,  weak  but  conscious.  He 
had  accepted  without  speech  the  presence  of  Diana  and 
July,  and  had  soon  fallen  asleep  again,  "like  a  chile." 
He  ate  some  breakfast  the  next  morning,  and  the  day  pass 
ed  without  fever.  Mrs.  Redd  pronounced  him  convales 
cent,  and  declared  decisively  that  all  he  needed  was  to 
* '  eat  hearty. "  The  best  medicine  now  would  be  "  a  plen 
ty  of  vittals."  In  accordance  with  this  opinion  she  pre 
pared  a  meal  of  might,  carried  it  in  with  her  own  hands, 
and  in  two  minutes,  forgetting  all  about  the  instructions 
she  had  received,  betrayed  Anne's  secret.  Diana,  who 
was  present,  looked  at  her  reproachfully :  the  black  skin 
covered  more  faithfulness  than  the  white. 

"Well,  I  do  declare  to  Jerusalem  I  forgot!"  said  the 
hostess,  laughing.  "However,  now  you  know  it,  Miss 
Douglas  might  as  well  come  in,  and  make  you  eat  if  she 
can.  For  eat  you  must,  captain.  Why,  man  alive,  if  you 
could  see  yourself !  You're  just  skin  and  rattling  bones." 

And  thus  it  all  happened.  Anne,  afraid  to  lay  so  much 
as  a  finger's  weight  of  excitement  of  any  kind  upon  him 
in  his  weak  state,  hearing  his  voice  faintly  calling  her 
name,  and  understanding  at  once  that  her  presence  had 
been  disclosed,  came  quietly  in  with  a  calm  face,  as  though 
her  being  there  was  quite  commonplace  and  natural,  and 
taking  the  plate  from  Diana,  sat  down  by  the  bedside 
and  began  to  feed  him  with  the  bits  of  chicken,  which 
was  all  of  the  meal  of  might  that  he  would  touch.  She 
paid  no  attention  to  the  expression  which  grew  gradually 
in  his  feeble  eyes  as  they  rested  upon  her  and  followed 
her  motions,  at  first  vaguely,  then  with  more  and  more 
of  insistence  and  recollection. 


ANNE.  379 

"Anne  ?"  he  murmured,  after  a  while,  as  if  question 
ing  with  himself.  ' '  It  is  Anne  ?" 

She  lifted  her  hand  authoritatively.  ' '  Yes, "  she  said ; 
f '  but  you  must  not  talk.  Eat. " 

He  obeyed ;  but  he  still  gazed  at  her,  and  then  slowly  he 
smiled.  "You  will  not  run  away  again  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Not  immediately." 

"  Promise  that  you  will  not  go  to-night  or  to-morrow." 

"I  promise." 

And  then,  as  if  satisfied,  he  fell  asleep. 

He  slept  all  night  peacefully.  But  Anne  did  not  once 
lose  consciousness.  At  dawn  she  left  her  sleepless  couch, 
and  dressed  herself,  moving  about  the  room  cautiously,  so 
as  not  to  awaken  the  sleeper  below.  When  she  was  ready 
to  go  down,  she  paused  a  moment,  thinking.  Raising 
her  eyes,  she  found  herself  standing  by  chance  opposite 
the  small  mirror,  and  her  gaze  rested  half  unconsciously 
upon  her  own  reflected  image.  She  drew  nearer,  and 
leaning  with  folded  arms  upon  the  chest  of  drawers,  look 
ed  at  herself,  as  if  striving  to  see  something  hitherto 
hidden. 

We  think  we  know  our  own  faces,  yet  they  are  in  real 
ity  less  known  to  us  than  the  countenances  of  our  ac 
quaintances,  of  our  servants,  even  of  our  dogs.  If  any 
one  will  stand  alone  close  to  a  mirror,  and  look  intently 
at  his  own  reflection  for  several  minutes  or  longer,  the 
impression  produced  on  his  mind  will  be  extraordinary. 
At  first  it  is  nothing  but  his  own  well-known,  perhaps 
well-worn,  face  that  confronts  him.  Whatever  there 
may  be  of  novelty  in  the  faces  of  others,  there  is  certain 
ly  nothing  of  it  here.  So  at  least  he  believes.  But  after 
a  while  it  grows  strange.  What  do  those  eyes  mean, 
meeting  his  so  mysteriously  and  silently  ?  Whose  mouth 
is  that  ?  Whose  brow  ?  What  vague  suggestions  of 
something  stronger  than  he  is,  some  dormant  force  which 
laughs  him  to  scorn,  are  lurking  behind  that  mask  ?  In. 
the  outline  of  the  features,  the  curve  of  the  jaw  and  chin, 
perhaps  he  notes  a  suggested  likeness  to  this  or  that  ani 
mal  of  the  lower  class — a  sign  of  some  trait  which  he  was 
not  conscious  he  possessed.  And  then — those  strange 


380  ANNE. 

eyes  !  They  are  his  own  ;  nothing-  new  ;  yet  in  their 
depths  all  sorts  of  mocking  meanings  seem  to  rise.  The 
world,  with  all  its  associations,  even  his  own  history  also, 
drops  from  him  like  a  garment,  and  he  is  left  alone| 
facing  the  problem  of  his  own  existence.  It  is  the  old 
riddle  of  the  Sphinx. 

Something  of  this  passed  through  Anne's  mind  at  that 
moment.  She  was  too  young  to  accept  misery,  to  gener 
alize  on  sorrow,  to  place  herself  among  the  large  percent 
age  of  women  to  whom,  in  the  great  balance  of  popula^ 
tion,  a  happy  love  is  denied.  She  felt  her  own  wretch 
edness  acutely,  unceasingly,  while  the  man  she  loved  was 
so  near.  She  knew  that  she  would  leave  him,  that  he 
would  go  back  to  Helen ;  that  she  would  return  to  her 
hospital  work  and  to  Weston,  and  that  that  would  be  the 
end.  There  was  not  in  her  mind  a  thought  of  anything 
else.  Yet  this  certainty  did  not  prevent  the  two  large 
slow  tears  that  rose  and  welled  over  as  she  watched  the 
eyes  in  the  glass,  watched  them  as  though  they  were  the 
eyes  of  some  one  else. 

Diana's  head  now  appeared,  giving  the  morning  bul 
letin:  the  captain  had  slept  "like  a  cherrb,"  and  was  al 
ready  "'mos'  well."  Anne  went  down  by  .the  outside 
stairway,  and  ate  her  breakfast  under  the  trees  not  far 
from  Mrs.  Redd's  out-door  hearth.  She  told  July  that  she 
should  return  to  the  hospital  during  the  coming  night, 
or,  if  the  mountain  path  could  not  be  traversed  in  the 
darkness,  they  must  start  at  dawn. 

"I  don't  think  it's  quite  fair  of  you  to  quit  so  soon," 
objected  Mrs.  Redd,  loath  to  lose  her  profit. 

"If  you  can  find  anyone  to  escort  me,  I  will  leave  you 
Diana  and  July,"  answered  Anne.  "For  myself,  I  can 
not  stay  longer." 

July  went  in  with  the  sick  man's  breakfast,  but  came 
forth  again  immediately.  ' '  He  wants  yo"1  to  come,  miss. " 

"I  can  not  come  now.  If  he  eats  his  breakfast  obedi 
ently,  I  will  come  in  and  see  him  later,"  said  the  nurse. 

"Isn't  much  trouble  'bout  eating," said  July,  grinning. 
"  Cap'n  he  eats  like  he  'mos'  star.ved." 

Anne  remained  sitting  under  the  trees,  while  the  two 


ANNE.  381 

black  servants  attended  to  her  patient.  At  ten  o'clock  he 
was  reported  as  "sittiii'  up  in  bed,  and  powerful  smart." 
This  bulletin  was  soon  followed  by  another,  "Him  all 
tired  out  now,  and  gone  to  sleep." 

Leaving  directions  for  the  next  hour,  she  strolled  into 
the  woods  behind  the  house.  She  had  intended  to  go  but 
a  short  distance,  but,  led  on  by  her  own  restlessness  and 
the  dull  pain  in  her  heart,  she  wandered  farther  than 
she  knew. 

Jacob  Redd's  little  farm  was  on  the  northern  edge  of  the 
valley;  its  fields  and  wood-lot  ascended  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  Anne,  reaching  the  end  of  the  wood-lot,  open 
ed  the  gate,  and  went  on  up  the  hill.  She  followed  a  lit 
tle  trail.  The  trees  were  larger  than  those  through  which 
she  had  travelled  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley ;  it 
was  a  wood,  not  a  thicket;  the  sunshine  was  hot,  the 
green  silent  shade  pleasant.  She  went  on,  although  now 
the  trail  was  climbing  upward  steeply,  and  rocks  appear 
ed.  She  had  been  ascending  for  half  an  hour,  when  she 
came  suddenly  upon  a  narrow,  deep  ravine,  crossing  from 
left  to  right ;  the  trail  turned  and  followed  its  edge ;  but 
as  its  depths  looked  cool  and  inviting,  and  as  she  thought 
she  heard  the  sound  of  a  brook  below,  she  left  the  little 
path,  and  went  downward  into  the  glen.  When  she 
reached  the  bottom  she  found  herself  beside  a  brook, 
flowing  along  over  white  pebbles ;  it  was  not  more  than  a 
foot  wide,  but  full  of  life  and  merriment,  going  no  one 
knew  whither,  and  in  a  great  hurry  about  it.  A  little 
brook  is  a  fascinating  object  to  persons  unaccustomed  to 
its  coaxing,  vagrant  witcheries.  There  were  no  brooks 
on  the  island,  only  springs  that  trickled  down  from  the 
cliffs  into  the  lake  in  tiny  silver  water-falls.  Anne  fol 
lowed  the  brook.  Absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  and 
naturally  fearless,  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  there  might 
be  danger  even  in  this  quiet  forest.  She  went  round  a 
curve,  then  round  another,  when— what  was  that  ?  She 
paused.  Could  he  have  seen  her  ?  Was  he  asleep  ?  Or 
— dead  ? 

It  was  a  common  sight  enough,  a  dead  soldier  in  the 
uniform  of  the  United  States  infantry.  He  was  young, 


382  ANNE. 

and  his  face,  turned  toward  her,  was  as  peaceful  as  if  he 
was  sleeping ;  there  was  almost  a  smile  on  his  cold  lips. 
With  beating  heart  she  looked  around.  There  were 
twisted  broken  branches  above  on  the  steep  side  of  the  ra 
vine;  he  had  either  fallen  over,  or  else  had  dragged  him 
self  down  to  be  out  of  danger,  or  perhaps  to  get  water 
from  the  brook.  The  death-wound  was  in  his  breast ;  she 
could  see  traces  of  blood.  But  he  could  not  have  been 
long  dead.  It  had  been  said  that  there  was  no  danger  in 
that  neighborhood  at  present ;  then  what  was  this  ?  Only 
one  of  the  chances  of  war,  and  a  common  one  in  that  re 
gion  :  an  isolated  soldier  taken  off  by  a  bullet  from  be 
hind  a  tree.  She  stood  looking  sorrowfully  down  upon 
the  prostrate  form;  then  a  thought  came  to  her.  She 
stooped  to  see  if  she  could  discover  the  identity  of  the 
slain  man  from  anything  his  pockets  contained.  There 
was  no  money,  but  various  little  possessions,  a  soldier's 
wealth — a  puzzle  carved  in  wood  and  neatly  fitted  togeth 
er,  a  pocket-knife,  a  ball  of  twine,  a  pipe,  and  a  ragged 
song-book.  At  last  she  came  upon  what  she  had  hoped 
to  find — a  letter.  It  was  from  the  soldier's  mother,  full 
of  love  and  little  items  of  neighborhood  news,  and  end 
ing,  "  May  God  bless  you,  my  dear  and  only  son!"  The 
postmark  was  that  of  a  small  village  in  Michigan,  and  the 
mother's  name  was  signed  in  full. 

One  page  of  the  letter  was  blank;  with  the  poor  sol 
dier's  own  pencil  Anne  drew  upon  this  half  sheet  a  sketch 
of  his  figure,  lying  there  peacefully  beside  the  little  brook. 
Then  she  severed  a  lock  of  his  hair,  and  went  sadly  away. 
July  should  come  up  and  bury  him ;  but  the  mother,  far 
away  in  Michigan,  should  have  something  more  than  the 
silence  and  heart-breaking  suspense  of  that  terrible  word 
"missing."  The  lock  of  hair,  the  picture,  and  the  poor 
little  articles  taken  from  his  pockets  would  be  her  great 
est  earthly  treasures.  For  the  girl  forgets  her  lover,  and 
the  wife  forgets  her  husband;  but  the  mother  never  for 
gets  her  dear  and  only  son. 

When  Anne  reached  the  farm-house  it  was  nearly  four 
o'clock.  July's  black  anxious  face  met  hers  as  she 
glanced  through  the  open  door  of  the  main  room ;  he  was 


ANNE.  383 

sitting  near  the  bed  waving  a  long  plume  of  feathers  back 
ward  and  forward  to  keep  the  flies  from  the  sleeping  face 
below.  The  negro  came  out  on  tiptoe,  his  enormous  patch 
ed  old  shoes  looking  like  caricatures,  yet  making  no  more 
sound,  as  he  stole  along,  than  the  small  slippers  of  a  wo 
man.  "Cap'en  he  orful  disappointed  'cause  you  worn't 
yere  at  dinner-time,"  he  whispered.  "An'  Mars'  Redd, 
Mis'  Redd's  husband,  you  know,  him  jess  come  home,  and 
they's  bote  gone  'cross  de  valley  to  see  some  pusson  they 
know  that's  sick ;  but  they'll  be  back  'fore  long.  And  Di 
she's  gone  to  look  fer  you,  'cause  she  was  moughty  on- 
easy  'bout  yer.  An'  she's  been  gone  so  long  that  Pm 
moughty  oneasy  'bout  Di.  PYaps  you  seen  her,  miss  ?" 

No,  Anne  had  not  seen  her.  July  looked  toward  the 
mountain-side  anxiously.  "Cap'en  he's  had  'em  broth, 
and  taken  'em  medicine,  and  has  jess  settled  down  to  a 
good  long  sleep ;  reckon  he  won't  wake  up  till  sunset.  If 
you'll  allow,  miss,  I'll  run  up  and  look  for  Di." 

Anne  saw  that  he  intended  to  go,  whether  she  wished 
it  or  not:  the  lazy  fellow  was  fond  of  his  wife.*  She 
gave  her  consent,  therefore,  on  the  condition  that  he 
would  return  speedily,  and  telling  him  of  the  dead  soldier, 
suggested  that  when  Farmer  Redd  returned  the  two  men 
should  go  up  the  mountain  together  and  bury  him.  Was 
there  a  burial-ground  or  church-yard  in  the  neighbor 
hood  ? 

No;  July  knew  of  none;  each  family  buried  its  dead 
on  its  own  ground,  "  in  a  corner  of  a  meddar. "  He  went 
away,  and  Anne  sat  down  to  keep  the  watch. 

She  moved  the  long  plume  to  and  fro,  refraining  from 
even  looking  at  the  sleeper,  lest  by  some  occult  influence 
he  might  feel  the  gaze  and  waken.  Mrs.  Redd's  clock  in 
another  room  struck  five.  The  atmosphere  grew  breath 
less  ;  the  flies  became  tenacious,  almost  adhesive ;  the  heat 
was  intense.  She  knew  that  a  thunder-storm  must  be 
near,  but  from  where  she  sat  she  could  not  see  the  sky, 
and  she  was  afraid  to  stop  the  motion  of  the  waving  fan. 
Each  moment  she  hoped  to  hear  the  sound  of  July's  re 
turning  footsteps,  or  those  of  the  Redds,  but  none  came. 
Then  at  last  with  a  gust  and  a  whirl  of  hot  sand  the  still- 


884  ANNE. 

ness  was  broken,  and  the  storm  was  upon  them.  She  ran 
to  close  the  doors,  but  happily  the  sleeper  was  not  awak 
ened.  The  flies  retreated  to  the  ceiling",  and  she  stood 
looking  at  the  black  rushing  rain.  The  thunder  was  not 
loud,  but  the  lightning  was  almost  incessant.  She  now 
hoped  that  in  the  cooler  air  his  sleep  would  be  even  deep 
er  than  before. 

But  when  the  storm  had  sobered  down  into  steady  soft 
gray  rain,  so  that  she  could  open  the  doors  again,  she  heard 
a  voice  speaking  her  name : 

"Anne." 

She  turned.  Heathcote  was  awake,  and  gazing  at  her, 
almost  as  he  had  gazed  in  health. 

Summoning  all  her  self-possession,  yet  feeling  drearily, 
unshakenly  sure,  even  during  the  short  instant  of  cross 
ing  the  floor,  that  no  matter  what  he  might  say  (and  per 
haps  he  would  say  nothing),  she  should  not  swerve,  and 
that  this  little  moment,  with  all  its  pain  and  all  its  sweet 
ness,  would,  for  all  its  pain  and  all  its  sweetness,  soon 
be  gone,  she  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  taking  up  the 
fan,  said,  quietly : 

' '  I  am  glad  you  are  so  much  better.  As  the  fever  has 
not  returned,  in  a  week  or  two  you  may  hope  to  be  quite 
strong  again.  Do  not  try  to  talk,  please.  I  will  fan  you 
to  sleep." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Heathcote,  but  reaching  out  as  he 
spoke,  and  taking  hold  of  the  edge  of  her  sleeve,  which 
was  near  him. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  said  his  nurse,  smiling,  like 
one  who  humors  the  fancies  of  a  child. 

' '  To  keep  you  from  going  away.  You  said  you  would 
be  here  at  dinner,  and  you  were  not." 

' '  I  was  detained.     I  intended  to  be  here,  but — 

She  stopped,  for  Heathcote  had  closed  his  eyes,  and  she 
thought  he  was  falling  asleep.  But  no. 

"It  is  raining,"  he  said  presently,  still  with  closed 
eyes. 

' '  Yes ;  a  summer  shower." 

' '  Do  you  remember  that  thunder-storm  when  we  were 
in  the  little  cave  ?  You  are  changed  since  then." 


ANNE.  385 

She  made  no  answer. 

4 '  Your  face  has  grown  grave.  No  one  would  take  you 
for  a  child  now,  but  that  clay  in  the  cave  you  were  hard 
ly  more  than  one." 

"You  too  are  changed,"  she  answered,  turning  the  con 
versation  from  herself ;  ' '  you  are  thin  and  pale.  You 
must  sleep  and  eat.  Surrender  yourself  to  that  duty  for 
the  time  being."  She  spoke  with  matter-of-fact  cheerful 
ness,  but  her  ears  were'  strained  to  catch  the  sound  of 
footsteps.  None  came,  and  the  rain  fell  steadily.  She 
began  to  dread  rain. 

Heathcote  in  his  turn  did  not  reply,  but  she  was  con 
scious  that  his  eyes  were  open,  and  that  he  was  looking 
at  her.  At  last  he  said,  gently, 

"/should  have  placed  it  there,  Anne." 

She  turned;  his  gaze  was  fixed  upon  her  left  hand, 
and  the  gold  ring  given  by  the  school-girls. 

"  He  is  kind  to  you  ?  And  you— are  happy  ?"  he  con 
tinued,  still  gazing  at  the  circlet. 

She  did  not  speak ;  she  was  startled  and  confused.  He 
supposed,  then,  that  she  was  married.  Would  it  not  be 
best  to  leave  the  error  uncorrected  ?  But — could  she  suc 
ceed  in  this  ? 

"You  do  not  answer,"  said  Heathcote,  lifting  his  eyes 
to  her  face.  "  Are  you  not  happy,  then  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  happy,"  she  answered,  trying  to  smile. 
"But  please  do  not  talk;  you  are  not  strong  enough  for 
talking." 

' '  I  hope  he  is  not  here,  or  expected.     Do  not  let  him 
come  in  here,  Anne:  promise  me." 
'He  is  not  coming." 

'  He   is  in  the  army,  I  suppose,  somewhere  in  the 
ne  ghborhood ;  and  you  are  here  to  be  near  him  ?" 
'No." 

'  Then  how  is  it  that  you  are  here  ?" 
'  I  have  been  in  the  hospitals  for  a  short  time  as  nurse. 
But  if  you  persist  in  talking,  I  shall  certainly  leave  you. 
Why  not  try  to  sleep  ?" 

"  He  must  be  a  pretty  sort  of  fellow  to  let  you  go  into 
the  hospitals,"  said  Heathcoto,  paying  no  heed  to  her 


386  ANNE. 

threat.  "I  have  your  fatal  marriage  notice,  Anne;  I 
have  always  kept  it." 

' '  You  have  my  marriage  notice  ?"  she  repeated,  startled 
out  of  her  caution. 

"Yes.  Put  your  hand  under  my  pillow  and  you  will 
find  my  wallet ;  the  woman  of  the  house  has  skillfully 
abstracted  the  money,  "but  fortunately  she  has  not  con 
sidered  a  newspaper  slip  as  of  any  value."  He  took  the 
case  from  her  hand,  opened  it,-  and  gave  her  a  folded 
square  paper,  cut  from  the  columns  of  a  New  York  jour 
nal.  Anne  opened  it,  and  read  the  notice  of  the  marriage 
of  ' '  Erastus  Pronando,  son  of  the  late  John  Pronando, 
Esquire,  of  Philadelphia,  and  Angelique,  daughter  of  the 
>late  William  Douglas,  surgeon,  United  States  Army." 

The  slip  dropped  from  her  hand.  ' '  Pere  Michaux  must 
have  sent  it,"  she  thought. 

"It  was  in  all  the  New  York  and  Philadelphia  pa 
pers  for  several  days,"  said  Heathcote.  "There  seemed 
to  be  a  kind  of  insistence  about  it." 

And  there  was.  Pere  Michaux  had  hoped  that  the 
Eastern  Pronandos  would  see  the  name,  and,  moved  by 
some  awakening  of  memory  or  affection,  would  make  in 
quiry  for  this  son  of  the  lost  brother,  and  assist  him  on 
his  journey  through  the  crowded  world. 

"I  did  not  know  that  'Anne'  was  a  shortening  of 
'  Angelique' ;  I  thought  yours  was  the  plain  old  English 
name.  But  Helen  knew;  I  showed  the  notice  to  her." 

Anne's  face  altered ;  she  could  not  control  the  tremor 
that  seized  her,  and  he  noticed  it. 

"  Are  you  not  married  then,  after  all  ?  Tell  me,  Anne, 
tell  me.  You  can  not  deceive;  you  never  could,  poor 
child;  I  remember  that  well." 

She  tried  to  rise,  but  he  held  her  arm  with  both  hands, 
and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  use  force  against  that 
feeble  hold. 

' '  Why  should  you  not  tell  me  what  all  the  world  is  free 
to  know?"  he  continued.  "What  difference  does  it 
make  ?" 

"You  are  right;  it  makes  no  difference, "  she  answer 
ed,  seating  herself,  and  taking  up  the  fan  again.  "  It  is 


u  SHE    TRIED  TO   RISE.  BUT    HE    HELD    HER    ARM    WITH    BOTH   HA.NDS." 


ANNE. 


387 


of  no  especial  consequence.  No,  I  am  not  married,  Mr. 
Heathcote.  Aiigelique  is  the  name  of  my  little  sister  Tita, 
of  whom  you  have  heard  me  speak ;  we  first  called  her 
Petite,  then  Tita.  Mr.  Pronando  and  Tita  are  married." 

"The  same  Pronando  to  whom  you  were  engaged  ?" 

"Yes.     He  is— 

"Oh,  I  do  not  care  to  hear  anything  about  him.  Give 
me  your  hand,  Anne.  Take  off  that  ring." 

"No ;  it  wras  a  present  from  my  pupils,"  she  said,  draw 
ing  back  with  a  smile,  but  at  the  same  time  an  inward 
sigh  of  relief  that  the  disclosure  was  over.  "They — " 

"If  you  knew  what  I  suffered  when  I  read  that  no 
tice!"  pursued  Heathcote,  without  heeding  her.  "The 
world  seemed  all  wrong  then  forever.  For  there  was 
something  about  you,  Anne,  which  brought  out  what 
small  good  there  was  in  my  worthless  self,  and  young  as 
you  were,  you  yet  in  one  wTay  ruled  me.  I  might  have 
borne  the  separation  itself,  but  the  thought  that  any 
other  man  should  call  you  wife  was  intolerable  to  me. 
I  had — I  still  have  it — a  peculiar  feeling  about  you.  In 
some  mysterious  way  you  had  come  to  be  the  one  real 
faith  of  my  life.  I  was  bitterly  hurt  and  angry  when 
you  ran  away  from  me  ;  but  angry  as  I  was,  I  still 
searched  for  you,  and  would  have  searched  again  if 
Helen  had  not —  But  never  mind  that  now.  If  I  have 
loved  you,  Anne,  you  have  loved  me  just  as  dearly.  And 
now  you  are  here,  and  I  am  here,  let  us  ask  no  more 
questions,  but  just— be  happy." 

' '  But, "  said  the  girl,  breathlessly,  ' '  Helen—  ?"  Then 
she  stopped. 

Heathcote  was  watching  her.  She  tried  to  be  calm,  but 
her  lips  trembled.  A  little  skill  in  deception  now,  poor 
Anne,  would  have  been  of  saving  help.  Heathcote  still 
watched  her  in  silence — watched  her  until  at  last  she  turn 
ed  toward  him. 

"Did  you  not  know," he  said,  slowly  meeting  her  eyes 
—"did  you  not  know  that  Helen  was— married  ?" 

"Married  ?     And  not  to  you  ?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  Then  he  answered. 
"Not  to  me." 


388  ANNE. 

A  silence  followed.  A  whirl  of  conflicting  feelings 
filled  Anne's  heart ;  she  turned  her  face  away,  blushing 
deeply,  and  conscious  of  it.  "I  hope  she  is  happy,"  she 
murmured  at  last,  striving  to  speak  naturally. 

"I  think  she  is."  Then  he  stretched  out  his  hands 
and  took  hers.  "Turn  this  way,  so  that  I  can  see  you," 
he  said,  beseechingly. 

She  turned,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  eyes  never  be 
held  so  exquisite  a  face. 

' '  My  darling,  do  you  love  me  ?  Tell  me  so.  If  I  was 
not  a  poor  sick  fellow,  I  should  take  you  in  my  arms  and 
draw  your  sweet  face  down  upon  my  shoulder.  But, 
as  it  is — "  He  moved  nearer,  and  tried  to  lift  himself 
upon  his  elbow. 

There  was  a  feebleness  in  the  effort  which  went  to 
Anne's  heart.  She  loved  him  so  deeply!  They  were 
both  free  now,  and  he  was  weak  and  ill.  With  a  sudden 
impulse  she  drew  nearer,  so  that  his  head  could  rest  on 
her  shoulder.  He  silently  put  out  his  hand ;  she  took  it  in 
hers ;  then  he  closed  his  eyes  as  if  content. 

As  for  Anne,  she  felt  an  outburst  of  happiness  almost 
too  great  to  bear;  her  breath  came  and  went  so  quickly 
that  Heathcote  perceived  it,  and  raising  her  hand  he  press 
ed  it  to  his  lips.  Still  he  did  not  open  his  eyes,  or  speak 
one  word  further  to  the  blushing,  beautiful  woman  whose 
arm  was  supporting  him,  and  whose  eyes,  timid  yet  lov 
ing,  were  resting  upon  his  face.  If  he  had  been  strong, 
she  would  never  have  yielded  so  far.  But  nothing  ap 
peals  so  powerfully  to  a  woman's  heart  as  the  sudden 
feebleness  of  a  strong  man — the  man  she  loves.  It  is  so 
new  and  perilously  sweet  that  he  should  be  dependent 
upon  her,  that  her  arm  should  be  needed  to  support  him, 
that  his  weak  voice  should  call  her  name  with  childish 
loneliness  and  impatience  if  she  is  not  there.  And  so 
Anne  at  last  no  longer  turned  her  eyes  away,  but  looked 
down  upon  the  face  lying  upon  her  shoulder — a  face 
worn  by  illness  and  bronzed  by  exposure,  but  the  same 
face  still,  the  face  of  the  summer  idler  at  Caryl's,  the 
face  she  had  seen  during  those  long  hours  in  the  sunset 
arbor,  in  the  garden  that  morning,  the  face  of  the  man 


ANNE.  389 

who  had  followed  her  westward,  and  who  now,  after  long 
liopeless  loneliness  and  pain,  was  with  her  again,  and  her 
own  forever.  A  rush  of  tenderest  pity  came  over  her 
as  she  noted  the  hollows  at  the  temples,  and  the  dark 
shadows  under  the  closed  eyes.  She  bent  her  head,  and 
touched  his  closely  cut  hair  with  her  lips. 

"  Do  not,"  said  Heathcote. 

She  had  not  thought  that  he  would  perceive  the  girlish 
little  caress;  she  drew  back  quickly.  Then  he  opened 
his  eyes.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  had  been  trying  to 
keep  them  shut. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  he  murmured,  looking  at  her. 
"Kiss  me,  Anne.  Kiss  me  once.  Oh,  my  darling !  my 
darling !"  And  with  more  strength  than  she  supposed 
him  to  possess,  he  threw  his  arms  round  her,  drew  her 
lovely  face  down  to  his,  and  kissed  her  fondly,  not  once, 
but  many  times. 

And  she,  at  first  resisting  love's  sweet  violence,  at  last 
yielded  to  it ;  for,  she  loved  him. 

The  rain  still  fell;  it  was  growing  toward  twilight. 
Footsteps  were  approaching. 

"  It  is  Diana,"  said  Anne. 

But  Heathcote  still  held  her. 

"  Please  let  me  go,"  she  said,  smiling  happily. 

' '  Then  tell  me  you  love  me. " 

"You  know  I  do,  Ward,"  she  answered,  blushing  deep 
ly,  yet  with  all  the  old  honesty  in  her  sincere  eyes. 

* '  Will  you  come  and  say  good-night  to  me  if  I  let  you 
go  now?" 

"Yes." 

Her  beautiful  lips  were  near  his;  he  could  not  help 
kissing  her  once  more.  Then  he  released  her. 

The  room  Avas  dim.  Opening  the  door,  she  saw  Diana 
and  July  coming  through  the  shed  toward  her,  their 
clothes  wet  and  streaked  with  red  clay.  Diana  explain 
ed  their  long  absence  gravely.  July  had  not  been  able 
to  restrain  his  curiosity  about  the  dead  soldier,  and  when 
he  finally  found  his  wife,  where  she  was  searching  for 
"miss,"  they  were  both  so  far  up  the  mountain  that  he 
announced  his  intention  of  going  to  "find  the  pore  fel- 


390  ANNE. 

low  anyway,"  and  that  she  might  go  with  him  or  return 
homeward  as  she  pleased. 

"Sence  he  would  go,  it  was  better  fo'  me  to  go  too, 
miss,"  said  the  black  wife,  glancing  at  her  husband  with 
some  severity.  "An'  while  we  was  about  it,  we  jess 
buried  him." 

The  sternly  honest  principles  of  Diana  countenanced 
no  rifling  of  pockets,  no  thefts  of  clothing;  she  would 
not  trust  July  alone  with  the  dead  man.  Who  knew 
what  temptation  there  might  be  in  the  shape  of  a  pocket- 
knife  ?  Without  putting  her  fears  into  words,  however — 
for  she  always  carefully  guarded  her  husband's  dignity- 
she  accompanied  him,  stood  by  while  he  made  his  exam 
ination,  and  then  waited  alone  in  the  ravine  while  he  went 
to  a  farm-house  a  mile  or  two  distant  and  returned  with 
two  other  blacks,  who  assisted  in  digging  the  grave.  The 
rain  pattered  down  upon  the  leaves  overhead,  and  at  last 
reached  her  and  the  dead,  whose  face  she  had  reverently 
covered  with  her  clean  white  apron.  When  all  was 
ready,  they  carefully  lowered  the  body  to  its  last  resting- 
place,  first  lining  the  hollow  with  fresh  green  leaves,  ac 
cording  to  the  rude  unconscious  poetry  which  the  negroes, 
left  to  themselves,  often  display.  Diana  had  then  kneel 
ed  down  and  "offered  a  powerfu'  prayer,"  so  July  said. 
Then,  having  made  a  "firs'-rate  mouii'  ober  him,"  they 
had  come  away,  leaving  him  to  his  long  repose. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Eedds  returned  also.  By  con 
trast  with  the  preceding  stillness,  the  little  house  seemed 
full  to  overflowing.  Anne  busied  herself  in  household 
tasks,  and  let  the  others  wait  upon  the  patient.  But  she 
did  not  deny  herself  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  him  from 
the  other  side  of  the  room  now  and  then,  and  she  smiled 
brightly  whenever  his  eyes  met  hers  and  gave  back  her 
mute  salutation. 

Heathcote  was  so  much  better  that  only  July  was  to 
watch  that  night  ;  Diana  was  to  enjoy  an  unbroken 
night's  rest,  with  a  pillow  and  a  blanket  upon  the  hay  in 
the  barn.  July  went  out  to  arrange  this  bed  for  his  wife, 
and  then,  as  the  patient  was  for  the  moment  left  alone, 
Anne  stole  down  from  her  loft  to  keep  her  promise, 


ANNE.  391 

* '  Good-night,"  she  murmured,  bending  over  him.  "  Do 
not  keep  me,  good-night." 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  but,  laughing  lightly  and 
happily,  she  slipped  from  his  grasp  and  was  gone. 

When  July  returned,  there  was  no  one  there  but  his 
patient,  who  did  not  have  so  quiet  a  night  as  they  had  an 
ticipated,  being  restless,  tormented  apparently  by  trou 
bled  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  My  only  wickedness  is  that  I  love  you ;  my  only  goodness,  the 
same." — ANONYMOUS. 

"A  Durwaish  in  his  prayer  said:  '0  God,  show  kindness  toward 
the  wicked;  for  on  the  good  Thou  hast  already  bestowed  kindness 
enough  by  having  created  them  virtuous.1  " — SAADI. 

ANNE  passed  the  next  day  in  the  same  state  of  vivid 
happiness.  The  mere  joy  of  the  present  was  enough  for 
her ;  she  thought  not  as  yet  of  the  future,  of  next  month, 
next  week,  or  even  to-morrow.  It  sufficed  that  they  were 
there  together,  and  free  without  wrong  to  love  each  oth 
er.  During  the  morning  there  came  no  second  chance 
for  their  being  alone,  and  Heathcote  grew  irritated  as  the 
slow  hours  passed.  Farmer  Redd  esteemed  it  his  duty, 
now  that  he  was  at  home  again,  to  entertain  his  guest 
whenever,  from  his  open  eyes,  he  judged  him  ready  for 
conversation ;  and  Mrs.  Redd,  July,  and  Diana  seemed  to 
have  grown  into  six  persons  at  least,  from  their  contin 
uous  appearances  at  the  door.  At  last,  about  five  o'clock, 
Anne  was  left  alone  in  the  room,  and  his  impatient  eyes 
immediately  summoned  her.  Smiling  at  his  irritation, 
she  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  took  up  the  fan. 

"You  need  not  do  that,"  he  said;  "or  rather,  yes,  do. 
It  will  keep  you  here,  at  any  rate.  Where  have  you  been 
all  day?1' 

They  could  talk  in  low  tones  unheard ;  but  through  the 
open  door  Mrs.  Redd  and  Diana  were  visible,  taking  down 
clothes  from  the  line.  Heathcote  watched  them  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  looked  at  his  nurse  with  silent  wistfulness. 


392  •        ANNE. 

"But  it  is  a  great  happiness  merely  to  be  together," 
said  Anne,  answering  the  look  in  words.  , 

"Yes,  I  know  it;  but  yet —  Tell  me,  Anne,  do  you 
love  me  ?" 

' '  You  know  I  do  ;  in  truth,  you  have  told  me  you 
knew  it  more  times  than  was  generous,"  she  answered,  al 
most  gayly.  She  was  fairly  light-hearted  now  with 
happiness. 

"That  is  not  what  I  want.  Look  at  me  and  tell  me; 
do,  dear."  He  spoke  urgently,  almost  feverishly ;  a  som 
bre  restless  light  burned  in  his  eyes. 

And  then  she  bent  forward  and  looked  at  him  with  so 
much  love  that  his  inmost  heart  was  stirred.  "I  love 
you  with  all  my  heart,  all  my  being,"  she  murmured, 
even  the  fair  young  beauty  of  her  face  eclipsed  by  the  light 
from  the  soul  within.  He  saw  then  what  he  had  seen  be 
fore — how  deep  was  her  love  for  him.  But  this  time  there 
was  in  it  no  fear;  only  perfect  trust. 

He  turned  his  head  away  as  if  struggling  with  some  hid 
den  emotion.  But  Anne,  recovering  herself,  fell  back 
into  her  former  content,  and  began  to  talk  with  the  child 
like  ease  of  happiness.  She  told  him  of  her  life,  all  that 
had  happened  since  their  parting.  Once  or  twice,  when 
her  story  approached  their  past,  and  she  made  some 
chance  inquiry,  he  stopped  her.  "  Do  not  ask  questions," 
he  said;  "let  us  rest  content  with  what  we  have;"  and 
she,  willing  to  follow  his  fancy,  smiled  and  refrained. 
He  lay  silently  watching  her  as  she  talked.  Her  faith  in 
him  was  absolute ;  it  was  part  of  her  nature,  and  he  knew 
her  nature.  It  was  because  she  was  what  she  was  that  he 
had  loved  her,  when  all  the  habits  and  purposes  of  his 
life  were  directly  opposed  to  it. 

"Anne,"  he  said,  "when  will  you  marry  me  ?'* 

"Whenever  you  wish,"  she  answered,  with  what  was 
to  him  the  sweetest  expression  of  obedience  that  a  girl's 
pure  eyes  ever  held. 

' '  Will  you  go  with  me,  as  soon  as  I  am  able,  and  let 
some  clergyman  in  the  nearest  village  marry  us  ?" 

"I  would  rather  have  Miss  Lois  come,  and  little  Andre; 
still,  Ward,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish." 


?i---=-sr^ 
"  WEAK,  HOLDING    OX    BY   THE    TREES." 


ANNE.  393 

He  took  her  hand,  and  laid  his  hot  cheek  upon  it;  a 
moisture  gathered  in  his  eyes.  "  You  trust  me  entirely. 
You  would  put  your  hand  in  mine  to-night  and  go  out 
into  the  world  with  me  unquestioning  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Kiss  me  once,  love — just  once  more."  His  face  was 
altering;  its  faint  color  had  faded,  and  a  brown  pallor 
was  taking  its  place. 

' '  You  are  tired, "  said  Anne,  regretfully ;  "  I  have  talk 
ed  to  you  too  long."  What  he  had  said  made  no  espe 
cial  impression  upon  her ;  of  course  she  trusted  him. 

"Kiss  me,"  he  said  again;  "only  once  more,  love." 
There  was  a  strange  dulled  look  in  his  eyes ;  she  missed  the 
expression  which  had  lain  there  since  the  avowal  of  the 
day  before.  She  turned;  there  was  no  one  in  sight — 
the  women  had  gone  to  the  end  of  the  garden.  She  bent 
over  and  kissed  him  with  timid  tenderness,  and  as  her 
lips  touched  his  cheek,  tears  stole  from  his  eyes  under  the 
closed  lashes.  Then,  as  steps  were  approaching,  he  turn 
ed  his  face  toward  the  wall,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hand.  She  thought  that  he  was  tired,  that  he  had  been 
overtaxed  by  all  that  had  happened,  and  going  out  softly 
she  cautioned  the  others.  ' '  Do  not  go  in  at  present ;  I 
think  he  is  falling  asleep." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  jest  take  this  time  to  run  across  to 
Miss  Pendleton's  and  git  some  of  that  yere  fine  meal;  I 
reckon  the  captain  will  like  a  cake  of  it  for  supper,"  said 
Mrs.  Redd.  ' '  And,  Di,  you  go  down  to  Dawson's  and  git 
a  young  chicken  for  briling.  No  one  need  say  as  how 
the  captain  don't  have  enough  to  eat  yere." 

July  was  left  in  charge.  Anne  took  her  straw  hat, 
passed  through  the  garden,  and  into  the  wood-lot  behind, 
where  she  strolled  to  and  fro,- looking  at  the  hues  of  the 
sunset  through  the  trees,  although  not  in  reality  conscious 
of  the  colors  at  all,  save  as  part  of  the  great  boundless 
joy  of  the  day. 

She  had  been  there  some  time,  when  a  sound  roused 
her ;  she  lifted  her  eyes.  Was  it  a  ghost  approaching  ? 

Weak,  holding  011  by  the  trees,  a  shadow  of  his  former 
self,  it  was  Ward  Heathcote  who  was  coming  toward  her 


394  ANNE. 

as  well  as  he  could,  swerving1  a  little  now  and  then,  and 
moving  unsteadily,  yet  walking.  July  had  deserted  his 
post,  and  the  patient,  left  alone,  had  risen,  dressed  himself 
unaided,  and  was  coming  to  find  her. 

With  a  cry  she  went  to  meet  him,  and  drew  him  down 
upon  a  fallen  tree  trunk.  "What  can  you  mean?"  she 
said,  kneeling  down  to  support  him. 

"Do  not,"  he  answered  (and  the  voice  was  unlike 
Heathcote's).  "I  will  move  along  so  that  I  can  lean 
against  this  tree.  Come  where  I  can  see  you,  Anne;  I 
have  something  to  say." 

"Let  us  first  go  back  to  the  house.  Then  you  can 
say  it." 

But  he  only  made  a  motion  of  refusal,  and,  startled  by 
his  manner,  she  came  and  stood  before  him  as  he  desired. 
He  began  to  speak  at  once,  and  rapidly. 

"Anne,  I  have  deceived  you.  Helen  is  married;  but 
I—  am  her  husband." 

She  gazed  at  him.  Not  a  muscle  or  feature  had  stirred, 
yet  her  whole  face  was  altered. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  deceive  you;  there  was  no  plan. 
It  was  a  wild  temptation  that  swept  over  me  suddenly 
when  I  found  that  you  were  free — not  married  as  I  had 
thought ;  that  you  still  loved  me,  and  that  you — did  not 
know.  I  said  to  myself,  let  me  have  the  sweetness  of 
her  love  for  one  short  day,  one  short  day  only,  and  then  I 
will  tell  her  all.  Yet  I  might  have  let  it  go  on  for  a  while 
longer,  Anne,  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  own  words  this 
afternoon :  you  would  go  with  me  anywhere,  at  any  time, 
trusting  me  utterly,  loving  me  as  you  only  can  love. 
Your  faith  has  humiliated  me ;  your  unquestioning  trust 
has  made  me  ashamed.  And  so  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
the  deception,  and  to  tell  you  also  that  I  love  you  so  that 
I  will  no  longer  trust  myself.  I  do  not  say  that  I  can 
not,  but  that  I  will  not.  And  I  feel  the  strongest  self-re 
proach  of  my  life  that  I  took  advantage  of  your  innocent 
faith  to  draw  out,  even  for  that  short  time,  the  proof 
which  I  did  not  need ;  for  ever  since  that  morning  in  the 
garden,  Anne,  I  have  known  that  you  loved  me.  It  was 
that  which  hurt  me  in  your  marriage.  But  you  are  so 


ANNE.  395 

sweet,  so  dangerously  sweet  to  me,  and  I — have  not  been 
nocustomed  to  deny  myself.  This  is  no  excuse ;  I  do  not 
offer  it  as  such.  But  remember  what  kind  of  a  man  I 
have  been;  remember  that  I  love  you,  and — forgive  me." 

For  the  first  time  he  now  looked  at  her.  Still  and 
white  as  a  snow  statue,  she  met  his  gaze  mutely. 

' '  I  can  say  no  more,  Anne,  unless  you  tell  me  you  for 
give  me." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  moved  as  if  to  rise  and  come 
to  her,  but  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  keep  him  back. 

' '  You  are  too  weak, "  she  murmured,  hurriedly.  ' '  Yes, 
yes,  I  forgive  you." 

"You  will  wish  to  know  how  it  all  happened,"  he  be 
gan  again,  and  his  voice  showed  his  increasing  exhaustion. 

"No ;  I  do  not  care  to  hear." 

"I  will  write  it,  then." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause  ;  he  closed  his  eyes. 
The  girl,  noting,  amid  her  own  suffering,  the  deathly 
look  upon  his  face,  came  to  his  side.  ' '  You  must  go  back 
to  the  house, "  she  said.  ' '  Will  my  arm  be  enough  ?  Or 
shall  I  call  July?" 

He  looked  at  her;  a  light  came  back  into  his  eyes. 
"Anne,"  he  whispered,  "would  not  the  whole  world  be 
well  lost  to  us  if  we  could  have  but  love  and  each  other  ?" 

She  returned  his  gaze.  ' '  Yes, "  she  said,  ' '  it  would — if 
happiness  were  all." 

"  Then  you  would  be  happy  with  me,  darling  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Alone  with  me,  and — in  banishment?" 

"In  banishment,  in  disgrace,  in  poverty,  pain,  and 
death,"  she  answered,  steadily. 

"Then  you  will  go  with  me,  trusting  to  me  only?" 
He  was  holding  her  hands  now,  and  she  did  not  withdraw 
them. 

"  No,"  she  answered ;  "never.  If  happiness  were  all, 
I  said.  But  it  is  not  all.  There  is  something  nearer, 
higher  than  happiness."  She  paused.  Then  rapidly 
and  passionately  these  words  broke  from  her:  "Ward, 
Ward,  you  are  far  more  than  my  life  to  me.  Do  not  kill 
me,  kill  my  love  for  you,  my  faith  in  you,  by  trying 


396  ANNE. 

to  tempt  me  more.  You  could  not  succeed;  I  tell  you 
plainly  you  could  never  succeed;  but  it  is  not  on  that 
account  I  speak.  It  is  because  it  would  kill  me  to  lose  my 
belief  in  you,  my  love,  my  only,  only  love !" 

"But  I  am  not  so  good  as  you  think,"  murmured 
Heathcote,  leaning  his  head  against  her.  His  hands,  still 
holding  hers,  were  growing  cold. 

' '  But  you  are  brave.  And  you  shall  be  true.  Go 
back  to  Helen,  and  try  to  do  what  is  right,  as  I  also  shall 
try." 

"But  you — that  is  different.      You  do  not  care." 

"  Not  care!"  she  repeated,  and  her  voice  quivered  and 
broke.  "You  knoiv  that  is  false." 

"It  is.     Forgive  me." 

' '  Promise  me  that  you  will  go  back ;  promise  for  my 
sake,  Ward.  Light  words  are  often  spoken  about  a  brok 
en  heart ;  but  I  think,  if  you  fail  me  now,  my  heart  will 
break  indeed." 

"  What  must  I  do  ?" 

"Go  back  to  Helen — to  your  life,  whatever  it  is." 

"And  shall  I  see  you  again  ?" 

"No." 

"It  is  too  hard,  too  hard, "he  whispered,  putting  his 
arms  round  her. 

But  she  unclasped  them.  ' '  I  have  your  promise  ?"  she 
said. 

"No." 

"Then  I  take  it."  And  lightly  touching  his  forehead 
with  her  lips,  she  turned  and  was  gone. 

When  July  and  Diana  came  to  bring  back  their  fool 
hardy  patient,  they  found  him  lying  on  the  earth  so  still 
and  cold  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  dead.  That  night 
the  fever  appeared  again.  But  there  was  only  Diana  to 
nurse  him  now ;  Anne  was  gone. 

Farmer  Redd  acted  as  guide  and  escort  back  to  Peter 
son's  Mill ;  but  the  pale  young  nurse  would  not  stop,  beg 
ging  Dr.  Flower  to  send  her  onward  immediately  to  Num 
ber  Two.  She  was  so  worn  and  changed  that  the  sur 
geon  feared  that  fever  had  already  attacked  her,  and  he 
sent  a  private  note  to  the  surgeon  of  Number  Two,  re^ 


ANNE.  397 

commending  that  Miss  Douglas  should  at  once  be  re 
turned  to  Number  One,  and,  if  possible,  sent  northward  to 
her  home.  But  when  Anne  arrived  at  Number  One, 
and  saw  again  the  sweet  face  of  Mrs.  Barstow,  when  she 
felt  herself  safely  surrounded  by  the  old  work,  she  said 
that  she  would  stay  for  a,  few  days  longer.  While  her 
hands  were  busy,  she  could  think ;  as  she  could  not  sleep, 
she  would  watch.  She  felt  that  she  had  now  to  learn  life 
entirely  anew ;  not  only  herself,  but  the  very  sky,  sun 
shine,  and  air.  The  world  was  altered. 

On  the  seventh  morning  a  letter  came;  it  was  from 
Heathcote,  and  had  been  forwarded  from  Peterson's  Mill. 
She  kept  it  until  she  had  a  half-hour  to  herself,  and  then, 
going  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  she  sat  down  under  the 
trees  and  opened  it.  Slowly ;  for  it  might  be  for  good,  or 
it  might  be  for  evil ;  but,  in  any  case,  it  was  her  last.  She 
would  not  allow  herself  to  receive  or  read  another. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  written  with  pencil  upon  coarse 
blue-lined  paper.  After  saying  that  the  fever  had  disap 
peared,  and  that  before  long  he  should  try  to  rejoin  his 
regiment,  the  words  went  on  as  follows : 

' '  I  said  that  I  would  write  and  tell  you  all.  When  you 
ran  away  from  me  last  year,  I  was  deeply  hurt ;  I  search 
ed  for  you,  but  could  find  no  clew.  Then  I  went  back 
eastward,  joined  the  camping  party,  and  after  a  day  or 
two  returned  with  them  to  Caryl's.  No  one  suspected 
where  I  had  been.  From  Caryl's  we  all  went  down  to 
the  city  together,  and  the  winter  began. 

"I  was,  in  a  certain  way,  engaged  to  Helen;  yet  I 
was  not  bound.  Nor  was  she.  I  liked  her:  she  had 
known  how  to  adapt  herself  to  me  always.  But  I  had 
never  been  in  any  haste ;  and  I  wondered  sometimes  why 
she  held  to  me,  when  there  were  other  men,  worth  more 
in  every  way  than  Ward  Heathcote,  who  admired  her 
as  much  as  I  did.  But  I  did  not  then  know  that  she 
loved  me.  I  know  it  now. 

' '  After  our  return  to  the  city,  I  never  spoke  of  you ; 
but  now  and  then  she  mentioned  your  name  of  her  own 
accord,  and  I — listened.  She  was  much  surprised  that  you 
did  not  write  to  her;  she  knew  no  more  where  you  were 


398  ANNE. 

than  I  did,  and  hoped  every  day  for  a  letter ;  so  did  I. 
But  you  did  not  write. 

"All  this  time — I  do  not  like  to  say  it,  yet  it  is  part  of 
the  story — she  made  herself  my  slave.  There  was  no 
thing  I  could  say  or  do,  110  matter  how  arbitrary,  to  which 
she  did  not  yield,  in  which  she  did  not  acquiesce.  No 
word  concerning  marriage  was  spoken,  even  our  former 
vague  lovers'  talk  had  ceased;  for,  after  you  hurt  me 
so  deeply,  Anne,  I  had  not  the  heart  for  it.  My  temper 
was  anything  but  pleasant.  The  winter  moved  on ;  I  had 
no  plan  ;  I  let  things  take  their  course.  But  I  always 
expected  to  find  you  in  some  way,  to  see  you  again,  un 
til — that  marriage  notice  appeared.  I  took  it  to  Helen. 
'  It  is  Anne,  I  suppose  ?'  I  said.  She  read  it,  and  an 
swered,  '  Yes.'  She  was  deceived,  just  as  I  was." 

Here  Anne  put  down  the  letter,  and  looked  off  over 
the  river.  Helen  knew  that  Tita's  name  was  Angelique, 
and  that  the  sister's  was  plain  Anne.  It  was  a  lie  direct. 
But  Heathcote  did  not  know  it.  "He  shall  never  know 
through  me,"  she  thought,  with  stern  sadness. 

The  letter  went  on:  "I  think  she  had  not  suspected 
me  before,  Anne — I  mean  in  connection  with  you :  she 
was  always  thinking  of  Rachel.  But  she  did  then,  and 
I  saw  it.  I  was  so  cut  up  about  it  that  I  concealed  no 
thing.  About  a  week  after  that  she  was  thrown  from 
her  carriage.  They  thought  she  was  dying,  and  sent  for 
me.  Miss  Teller  was  in  the  hall  waiting ;  she  took  me 
into  the  library,  and  said  that  the  doctors  thought  Helen 
might  live  if  they  could  only  rouse  her,  but  that  she 
seemed  to  be  sinking  into  a  stupor.  With  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks,  she  said,  '  Ward,  I  know  you  love  her, 
and  she  has  long  loved  you.  But  you  have  said  nothing, 
and  it  has  worn  upon  her.  Go  to  her  and  save  her  life. 
You  can. 

"She  took  me  into  the  room,  and  went  out,  closing  the 
door.  Helen  was  lying  on  a  couch ;  I  thought  she  was 
already  dead.  But  when  I  bent  over  her  and  spoke 
her  name,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  knew  me  immediate 
ly.  I  was  shocked  by  her  death-like  face.  It  was  all  so 
sudden.  I  had  left  her  the  night  before,  dressed  for  a 


ANNE.  399 

ball.  She  whispered  to  me  to  lift  her  in  my  arms,  so  that 
she  might  die  there  ;  but  I  was  afraid  to  move  her,  lest 
her  suffering  should  increase.  She  begged  with  so  much 
earnestness,  however,  that  at  last,  gently  as  I  could,  I  lift 
ed  and  held  her.  'I  am  going  to  die,'  she  whispered, 
'so  I  need  not  care  any  more,  or  try.  I  have  always 
loved  you,  Ward.  I  loved  you  even  when  I  married 
Richard.'  I  thought  her  mind  was  wandering;  and  she 
must  have  seen  that  I  did,  because  she  spoke  again,  and 
this  time  aloud.  '  I  am  perfectly  myself.  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  always  loved  you ;  you  shall  know  it  before  I 
die.'  Miss  Teller  said,  'And  he  loves  you  also,  my  dar 
ling  child ;  he  has  told  me  so.  Now,  for  his  sake  you 
will  try  to  recover  and  be  his  wife.' 

"We  were  married  two  days  later.  The  doctors  ad 
vised  it,  because  when  I  was  not  there  Helen  sank  rapid 
ly.  I  took  care  of  the  poor  girl  for  weeks ;  she  ate  only 
from  my  hand.  As  she  grew  stronger,  I  taught  her  to 
walk  again,  and  carried  her  in  my  arms  up  and  down 
stairs.  When  at  last  she  began  to  improve,  she  gained 
strength  rapidly ;  she  is  now  well,  save  that  she  will  nev 
er  be  able  to  walk  far  or  dance.  I  think  she  is  happy.  It 
seems  a  feeble  thing  to  say,  and  yet  it  is  something— I  am 
always  kind  to  Helen. 

."As  for  you — it  was  all  a  wild,  sudden  temptation. 

"  I  will  go  back  to  my  regiment  (as  to  my  being  in  the 
army,  after  that  attack  on  Sumter  it  seemed  to  me  the 
only  thing  to  do),  I  will  make  no  attempt  to  follow  you. 
In  short,  I  will  do— as  well  as  I  can.  It  may  not  be  very 
well.  W.  H." 

That  was  all.  Anne,  miserable,  lonely,  broken-heart 
ed,  as  she  was,  felt  that  she  had  in  one  way  conquered. 
She  leaned  her  head  against  the  tree  trunk,  and  sat  for 
some  time  with  her  eyes  closed.  Then  she  tore  the  letter 
into  fragments,  threw  them  into  the  river,  and  watched 
the  slow  current  bear  them  away.  When  the  last  one  had 
disappeared,  she  rose  and  went  back  to  the  hospital. 

"The  clean  clothes  have  been  brought  in,  Miss  Doug 
las,  "  said  the  surgeon's  assistan  t.  ' '  Can  you  sort  them  ?" 

"  Yes,'*  she  replied.      And  dull  life  moved  on  again. 


400  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"0  Toil,  0  Loneliness,  0  Poverty,  doing  the  right  makes  ye  no 


easier. 


THE  next  morning1  the  new  nurses,  long  delayed,  sent 
by  the  Weston  Aid  Society,  arrived  at  Number  One,  and 
Mary  Crane,  Mrs.  Barstow,  and  Anne  were  relieved  from 
duty,  and  returned  to  their  Northern  home.  During  the 
journey  Anne  decided  that  she  must  not  remain  in  Wes 
ton.  It  was  a  hard  decision,  but  it  seemed  to  her  inev 
itable.  This  man  whom  she  loved  knew  that  her  home 
was  there.  He  had  said  that  he  would  not  follow  her ;  but 
could  she  depend  upon  his  promise  ?  Even  in  saying  that 
he  would  try  to  do  as  well  as  he  could,  he  had  distinctly 
added  that  it  might ' '  not  be  very  well. "  She  must  leave 
no  temptation  in  his  path,  or  her  own.  She  must  put  it 
out  of  his  power  to  find  her,  out  of  hers  to  meet  him. 
She  must  go  away,  leaving  no  trace  behind. 

She  felt  deeply  thankful  that  at  the  present  moment 
her  movements  were  not  cramped  by  the  wants  of  the 
children ;  for  if  they  had  been  in  pressing  need,  she  must 
have  staid— have  staid  and  faced  the  fear  and  the  danger. 
Now  she  could  go.  But  whither  ?  It  would  be  hard  to 
go  out  into  the  broad  world  again,  this  time  more  soli 
tary  than  before.  After  much  thought,  she  decided  to 
go  eastward  to  the  half -house,  Jeanne- Armande  having 
given  her  permission  to  use  it.  It  would  be  at  least  a 
shelter  over  her  head,  and  probably  old  Nora  would  be 
glad  to  come  and  stay  with  her.  With  this  little  home 
as  background,  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  obtain  pupils  in 
the  city,  little  girls  to  whom  she  could  be  day  governess, 
giving  lessons  in  music  and  French.  But  the  pupils: 
how  could  she  obtain  them  ?  Whose  influence  could  she 
hope  for  ?  She  could  not  go  to  Tante,  lest  Helen  should 


ANNE.  401 

hear  of  her  presence.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  there  were 
no  one;  she  went  over  and  over  in  vain  her  meagre  list 
of  friends.  Suddenly  a  remembrance  of  the  little  German 
music-master,  who  had  taught  classical  music,  and  hated 
Belzhii,  came  to  her;  he  was  no  longer  at  the  Moreau 
school,  and  she  had  his  address.  He  had  been  especially 
kind.  She  summoned  her  courage  and  wrote  to  him. 
Herr  Scheff el's  reply  came  promptly  and  cordially.  ' '  I 
have  your  letter  received,  and  I  remember  you  entirely. 
I  know  not  now  all  I  can  promise,  as  my  season  of  les 
sons  is  not  yet  begun,  but  two  little  girls  you  can  have  at 
once  for  scales,  though  much  they  will  not  pay.  But 
with  your  voice,  honored  Fraulein,  a  place  in  a  church 
choir  is  the  best,  and  for  that  I  will  do  my  very  best  en 
deavor.  But  while  you  make  a  beginning,  honored  Frau 
lein,  take  my  wife  and  I  for  friends.  Our  loaf  and  our 
cup,  and  our  hearts  too,  are  all  yours." 

The  little  German  had  liked  Anne :  this  pupil,  and  this 
one  only,  had  cheered  the  dull  hours  he  had  spent  in  the 
little  third-story  room,  where  he,  the  piano,  and  the  screen 
had  their  cramped  abode.  Anne  smiled  as  she  gratefully 
read  his  warm-hearted  letter,  his  offer  of  his  cup  and  his 
loaf;  she  could  hear  him  saying  it — his  "gup"  and  his 
"loave,"  and  "two  liddle  girls  for  sgales,  though  moche 
they  will  not  bay."  She  had  written  to  old  Nora  also, 
and  the  answer  (a  niece  acting  as  scribe)  declared,  with 
Hibernian  effusiveness,  and  a  curious  assemblage  of  neg 
atives,  that  she  would  be  glad  to  return  to  the  half -house 
on  Jeanne- Armando's  old  terms,  namely,  her  living,  but 
no  wages.  She  did  not  add  that,  owing  to  rheumatism, 
she  was  unable  to  obtain  work  where  she  was ;  she  left 
Anne  to  find  that  out  for  herself.  But  even  old  Nora, 
bandaged  in  red  flannel,  her  gait  reduced  to  a  limp,  was  a 
companion  worth  having  when  one  is  companionless. 
During  the  interval,  Anne  had  received  several  letters 
from  Miss  Lois.  Little  Andre  was  better,  but  the  doctors 
'advised  that  he  should  remain  where  he  was  through  the 
winter.  Miss  Lois  wrote  that  she  was  willing  to  remain, 
in  the  hope  of  benefit  to  the  suffering  boy,  and  how  great 
a  concession  this  w^as  from  the  careful  housekeeper  and 

26 


4Q2  ANNE. 

home-lover  only  Anne  could  know.  (But  she  did  not 
know  how  close  the  child  had  grown  to  Miss  Lois\s  heart.) 
This  new  plan  would  prevent  their  coming1  to  Weston  at 
present.  Thankful  now  for  what  would  have  been,  under 
other  circumstances,  a  great  disappointment,  Anne  re 
signed  her  position  in  the  Weston  school,  and  went  away, 
at  the  last  suddenly,  and  evading  all  inquiries.  Mrs. 
Green  was  absent,  the  woman  in  temporary  charge  of  the 
lodgings  was  not  curious,  and  the  lonely  young  teacher 
was  able  to  carry  out  her  design.  She  left  Weston  alone 
in  the  cold  dawn  of  a  dark  morning,  her  face  turned  east 
ward. 

It  was  a  courageous  journey ;  only  Herr  Scheffel  to  rely 
upon,  and  the  great  stony-hearted  city  to  encounter  in 
the  hard  struggle  for  daily  bread.  Yet  she  felt  that  she 
must  not  linger  in  Weston;  and  she  felt,  too,  that  she 
must  not  add  herself  to  Miss  Lois' s  cares,  but  rather  make 
a  strong  effort  to  secure  a  new  position  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,  in  order  to  send  money  to  Andre.  She  thought  that 
she  would  be  safely  hidden,  at  the  half-house.  Heathcote 
knew  that  Jeanne- Armande  was  in  Europe,  and  therefore 
he  would  not  think  of  her  in  connection  with  Lancaster, 
but  would  suppose  that  she  was  still  in  Weston,  or,  if  not 
there,  then  at  home  on  her  Northern  island.  In  addition, 
one  is  never  so  well  hidden  as  in  the  crowds  of  a  large 
city.  But  when  she  saw  the  spires,  as  the  train  swept 
over  the  salt  marshes,  her  heart  began  to  beat:  the  blur 
of  roofs  seemed  so  vast,  and  herself  so  small  and  alone ! 
But  she  made  the  transit  safely,  and  drove  up  to  the  door 
of  the  half -house  in  the  red  wagon,  with  Li  as  driver,  at 
sunset.  A  figure  was  sitting  on  the  steps  outside,  with  a 
large  bundle  at  its  feet ;  it  was  Nora.  Anne  opened  the 
door  with  Jeanne- Armande's  key,  and  they  entered  to 
gether. 

"Oh,  wirra,  wirra!  Miss  Douglas  dear,  and  did  ye 
know  she'd  taken  out  all  the  furrrniture  ?  Sure  the  ould 
shell  is  impty."  It  was  true,  and  drearily  unexpected. 

Jeanne- Armande,  finding  time  to  make  a  flying- visit  to 
her  country  residence  the  day  before  she  sailed,  had  been 
seized  with  the  sudden  suspicion  that  certain  articles  were 


ANNE.  403 

missing1,  notably  a  green  wooden  pail  and  a  window-cur 
tain.     The  young1  priest,  who  had  met  her  there  by  ap 
pointment,  and  opened  the  door  for  her  with  his  key  (what 
mazes  of  roundabout  ways  homeward,  in  order  to  divert 
suspicion,  Jeanne- Arm ande  required  of  him  that  day!), 
was  of  the  opinion  that  she  was  mistaken.      But  no; 
Jeanne- Armande  was  never  mistaken.     She  knew  just 
where  she  had  left  that  pail,  and  as  for  the  pattern  of  the 
flowers  upon  that  curtain,  she  knew  every  petal.     Haunt 
ed  by  a  vision  of  the  abstraction  of  all  her  household 
furniture,  piece  by  piece,  during  her  long  absence — tables, 
chairs,   pans,  and   candle  -  sticks   following   each   other 
through  back  windows,  moved  by  invisible  hands— she 
was  seized  with  an  inspiration  on  the  spot :  she  would  sell 
off  all  her  furniture  by  public  sale  that  very  hour,  and 
leave  only  an  empty  house  behind  her.     She  knew  that 
she  was  considered  a  mystery  in  the  neighborhood  ;  pro 
bably,  then,  people  would  come  to  a  Mystery's  sale,  and 
pay  good  prices  for  a  Mystery's  furniture.     Of  one  thing 
she  was  certain — no  buyer  in  that  region  knew  how  to 
buy  for  prices  as  low  as  she  herself  had  paid.     Her  meth 
od  of  buying  was  genius.     In  five  minutes  a  boy  and  a 
bell  were  secured,  in  half  an  hour  the  whole  neighborhood 
had  heard  the  announcement,  and,  as  mademoiselle  had 
anticipated,  flocked  to  the  sale.     She  attended  to  all  ne 
gotiations  in  person,  still  in  her  role  of  a  Mystery,  and 
sailed  for  Europe  the  next  day  in  triumph,  having  in  her 
pocket  nearly  twice  the  sum  she  had  originally  expended. 
She  did  not  once  think  of  Anne  in  connection  with  this. 
Although  she  had  given  her  authority  to  use  the  half- 
house,  and  had  intrusted  to  her  care  her  own  key,  it  seem 
ed  almost  impossible  that  the  young  girl  would  wish  to 
use  it.     For  was  she  not  admirably  established  at  Wes- 
ton,  with   all   the   advantages   of   mademoiselle's   own 
name  and  position  behind  her  ? 

And  thus  it  was  that  only  bare  walls  met  Anne's  eyes 
as,  followed  by  Nora,  she  went  from  room  to  room,  ask 
ing  herself  silently  what  she  should  do  in  this  new  emer 
gency  that  confronted  her.  One  door  they  found  locked ; 
it  was  the  door  of  the  store-room:  there  must,  then,  be 


404  ANNE. 

something  within.  Li  was  summoned  to  break  the  lock, 
and  nothing  loath,  he  broke  it  so  well  that  it  was  use 
less  from  that  hour.  Yes,  here  was  something- — the  un-. 
sold  articles,  carefully  placed  in  order.  A  chair,  a  kitch 
en  table,  an  iron  tea-kettle  with  a  hole  in  it,  and  two  straw 
beds — the  covers  hanging  on  nails,  and  the  straw  tied  in 
bundles  beneath ;  there  was  also  a  collection  of  wooden 
boxes,  which  mademoiselle  had  endeavored,  but  without 
success,  to  dispose  of  as  "old,  superior,  and  well-seasoned 
kindling-wood."  It  was  a  meagre  supply  of  furniture 
with  which  to  begin  housekeeping,  a  collection  conspicu 
ous  for  what  it  lacked.  But  Anne,  summoning  courage, 
directed  Li  to  carry  down  stairs  all  the  articles,  such  as 
they  were,  while  she  cheered  old  Nora  with  the  promise  to 
buy  whatever  was  necessary,  and  asked  her  to  unpack 
the  few  supplies  she  had  herself  purchased  on  her  way 
through  the  city.  The  kitchen  stove  was  gone  ;  but 
there  was  a  fire-place,  and  Li  made  a  bright  fire  with  some 
of  the  superior  kindling-wood,  mended  the  kettle,  filled 
it,  and  hung  it  over  the  crackling  flame.  The  boy  enjoy 
ed  it  all  greatly.  He  stuffed  the  cases  with  straw,  and 
dragged  them  down  stairs,  he  brought  down  the  chair 
and  table,  and  piled  up  boxes  for  a  second  seat,  he  pinned 
up  Anne's  shawl  for  a  curtain,  and  then  volunteered  to  go 
to  the  store  for  whatever  was  necessary,  insisting,  how 
ever,  upon  the  strict  allowance  of  two  spoons,  two  plates, 
and  two  cups  only.  It  was  all  like  Robinson  Crusoe  and 
The  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  and  more  than  two  .would 
infringe  upon  the  severe  paucity  required  by  those  ad 
mirable  narratives.  When  he  returned  with  his  burden, 
he  affably  offered  to  remain  and  take  supper  with  them ; 
in  truth,  it  was  difficult  to  leave  such  a  fascinating  scene 
as  two  straw  beds  on  the  floor,  and  a  kettle  swinging 
over  a  hearth  fire,  like  a  gypsy  camp — at  least  as  Li  im 
agined  it,  for  that  essence  of  vagrant  romanticism  is  ab 
sent  from  American  life,  the  so-called  gypsies  always  turn 
ing  out  impostors,  with  neither  donkeys,  tents,  nor  camp 
fires,  and  instead  of  the  ancient  and  mysterious  language 
described  by  Borrow,  using  generally  the  well-known  and 
unpoetical  dialect  that  belongs  to  modern  and  American.' 


ANNE.  405 

ized  Erin.  At  last,  however,  Li  departed ;  Anne  fastened 
the  door.  Old  Nora  was  soon  asleep  011  the  straw,  but  not 
her  young1  mistress,  in  whose  mind  figures,  added  togeth 
er  and  set  opposite  each  other,  were  inscribing  themselves 
like  letters  of  fire  on  a  black  wall.  She  had  not  expect 
ed  any  such  outlay  as  would  now  be  required,  and  the 
money  she  had  brought  with  her  would  not  admit  it. 
At  last,  troubled  and  despairing,  she  rose  from  her  hard 
couch,  went  to  the  window,  and  looked  out.  Overhead 
the  stars  were  serenely  shining;  her  mind  went  back  to 
the  little  window  of  her  room  in  the  old  Agency.  These 
were  the  same  stars ;  God  was  the  same  God ;  would  He 
not  show  her  a  way  ?  Quieted,  she  returned  to  her  straw, 
and  soon  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  they  had  a  gypsy  breakfast.  The  sun 
shone  brightly,  and  even  in  the  empty  rooms  the  young 
day  looked  hopeful.  The  mistress  of  the  house  went  in 
to  the  city  on  the  morning  train,  and  in  spite  of  all  lacks, 
in  spite  of  all  her  trouble  and  care,  it  was  a  beautiful 
girl  who  entered  the  train  at  Lancaster  station,  and 
caused  for  a  moment  the  chronically  tired  business  men 
to  forget  their  damp-smelling  morning  papers  as  they 
looked  at  her.  For  Anne  was  constantly  growing  more 
beautiful;  nothing  had  had  power  as  yet  to  arrest  the 
strong  course  of  nature.  Sorrow  had  but  added  a  more 
ripened  charm,  since  now  the  old  child-like  openness 
was  gone,  and  in  its  place  was  a  knowledge  of  the  depth 
and  the  richness  and  the  pain  of  life,  and  a  reticence. 
The  open  page  had  been  written  upon,  and  turned  down. 
Riding  on  toward  the  city,  she  was,  however,  as  uncon 
scious  of  any  observation  she  attracted  as  if  she  had  been 
a  girl  of  marble.  Hers  was  not  one  of  those  natures 
which  can  follow  at  a  time  but  one  idea ;  yet  something 
of  the  intensity  which  such  natures  have — the  nature  of 
all  enthusiasts  and  partisans — was  hers,  owing  to  the 
strength  of  the  few  feelings  which  absorbed  her.  For 
the  thousand-and-oiie  Changing  interests,  fancies,  and  im 
pulses  wrhich  actuate  most  young  girls  there  was  in  her 
heart  no  room.  It  was  not  that  she  thought  and  imagined 
less,  but  that  she  loved  more. 


406  ANNE. 

Herr  Scheffel  received  her  in  his  small  parlor.  It  was 
over  the  shop  of  a  musical  instrument  maker,  a  German 
also.  Anne  looked  into  his  small  show-window  while 
she  was  waiting  for  the  street  door  to  be  opened,  noted 
the  great  brass  tubes  disposed  diagonally,  the  accordions 
in  a  rampart,  the  pavement  of  little  music-boxes  with 
views  of  Switzerland  on  their  lids,  and  the  violins  in 
apotheosis  above.  Behind  the  inner  glass  she  saw  the  in 
strument  maker  himself  dusting  a  tambourine.  She  im 
agined  him  playing  on  it  all  alone  on  rainy  evenings 
for  company,  with  the  other  instruments  looking  011  in  a 
friendly  wray.  Here  Herr  Scheffel's  cheery  wife  opened 
the  door,  and  upon  learning  the  name,  welcomed  her 
visitor  heartily,  and  ushered  her  up  the  narrow  stairway. 

"How  you  haf  zhanged!"  said  Herr  Scheffel,  lifting 
his  hands  in  astonishment  as  he  met  her  at  the  entrance. 
' '  But  not  for  the  vorse,  Fraulein.  On  the  gontrary !"  He 
bowed  gallantly,  and  brought  forward  his  best  arm-chair, 
then  bowed  again,  sat  down  opposite,  folded  his  hands, 
and  was  ready  for  business  or  pleasure,  as  she  saw  fit  to 
select.  Anne  had  come  to  him  hoping,  but  not  expecting. 
Fortune  favored  her,  however;  or  rather,  as  usual,  some 
one  had  taken  hold  of  Fortune,  and  forced  her  to  extend 
her  favor,  the  some  one  in  this  instance  being  the  little 
music-master  himself,  who  had  not  only  bestowed  two 
of  his  own  scholars  as  a  beginning,  but  had  also  obtained 
for  her  a  trial  place  in  a  church  choir.  He  now  went 
with  her  without  delay  to  the  residence  of  the  little  pu 
pils,  and  arranged  for  the  first  lesson ;  then  he  took  her 
to  visit  the  contralto  of  the  choir,  whose  good-will  he  had 
already  besought  for  the  young  stranger.  The  contralto 
was  a  thin,  disappointed  little  woman,  with  rather  a  bad 
temper;  but  as  she  liked  Anne's  voice,  and  hated  the  or 
ganist  and  tenor,  she  mentally  organized  an  alliance  of 
fensive  and  defensive  on  the  spot,  contralto,  soprano,  and 
basso  against  the  other  two,  with  possibilities  as  to  the 
rector  thrown  in.  For,  as  the  rector  regularly  attended 
the  rehearsals  (under  the  mild  delusion  that  he  was  di 
recting  the  choir),  the  contralto  hoped  that  the  new  so 
prano's  face,  as  well  as  voice,  would  draw  him  out  of 


ANNE.  407 

his  guarded  neutrality,  and  give  to  their  side  the  balance 
of  power.  So,  being  in  a  friendly  mood,  she  went  over 
the  anthems  with  Anne,  and  when  the  little  rehearsal 
was  ended,  Herr  Scheffel  took  her  thin  hand,  and  bow 
ed  over  it  profoundly.  Miss  Pratt  was  a  native  of  Maine, 
and  despised  romance,  yet  she  was  not  altogether  dis 
pleased  with  that  bow.  Sunday  morning  came;  the  new 
voice  conquered.  Aiiiie  was  engaged  to  fill  the  vacant 
place  in  the  choir.  Furniture  was  now  purchased  for  the 
empty  little  home,  but  very  sparingly.  It  looked  as 
though  it  would  be  cold  there  in  the  winter.  But — win 
ter  was  not  yet  come. 

Slowly  she  gained  other  pupils;  but  still  only  little 
girls  "for  the  sgales,"  as  Herr  Scheffel  said.  The  older 
scholars  for  whom  she  had  hoped  did  not  as  yet  seek  her. 
But  the  little  household  lived. 

In  the  mean  while  Pere  Michaux  on  the  island  and  Miss 
Lois  at  the  springs  had  both  been  taken  by  surprise  by 
Anne's  sudden  departure  from  Weston.  They  knew  no 
thing  of  it  until  she  was  safely  in  the  half -house.  But 
poor  Miss  Lois,  ever  since  the  affair  of  Tita  and  East,  had 
cynically  held  that  there  was  no  accounting  for  anybody 
or  anything  in  this  world,  and  she  therefore  remained  si 
lent.  Pere  Michau  x  divined  that  there  was  something  be 
hind;  but  as  Anne  offered  no  explanation,  he  asked  110 
question.  In  truth,  the  old  priest  had  a  faith  in  her  not 
unlike  that  which  had  taken  possession  of  Heathcote. 
What  was  it  that  gave  these  two  men  of  the  world  this 
faith  ?  It  was  not  her  innocence  alone,  for  many  are  in 
nocent.  It  was  her  sincerity,  combined  with  the  pe 
culiar  intensity  of  feeling  which  lay  beneath  the  surface 
— an  intensity  of  wrhich  she  was  herself  unconscious,  but 
which  their  eyes  could  plainly  perceive,  and,  for  its  great 
rarity,  admire,  as  the  one  perfect  pearl  is  admired  among 
the  thousands  of  its  compeers  by  those  who  have  know 
ledge  and  experience  enough  to  appreciate  its  flawless- 
ness.  But  the  majority  have  not  this  knowledge ;  they 
admire  mere  size,  or  a  pear-like  shape,  or  perhaps  some 
eccentricity  of  color.  Thus  the  perfect  one  is  guarded, 
and  the  world  is  not  reduced  to  despair. 


408  ANNE. 

During  these  days  in  the  city  Anne  had  thought  often 
of  Helen.  Her  engagements  were  all  in  another  quarter, 
distant  from  Miss  Teller's  residence ;  she  would  not  have 
accepted  pupils  in  that  neighborhood.  But  it  was  not 
probable  that  any  would  be  offered  to  her  in  so  fashion 
able  a  locality.  She  did  not  allow  herself  even  to  ap 
proach  that  part  of  the  city,  or  to  enter  the  streets  lead 
ing  to  it,  yet  many  times  she  found  herself  longing  to  see 
the  house  in  spite  of  her  determination,  and  thinking  that 
if  she  wore  a  thick  veil,  so  that  no  one  would  recognize 
her,  there  would  be  no  danger,  and  she  might  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  Teller,  or  even  of  Helen.  But  she  nev 
er  yielded  to  these  longings.  October  passed  into  Novem 
ber,  and  November  into  December,  and  she  did  not  once 
transgress  her  rules. 

Early  in  December  she  obtained  a  new  pupil,  her  first 
in  vocal  music.  She  gave  two  lessons  without  any  unu 
sual  occurrence,  and  then—  Of  all  the  powers  that  make 
or  mar  us,  the  most  autocratic  is  Chance.  Let  not  the 
name  of  Fate  be  mentioned  in  its  presence ;  let  Luck  hide 
its  head.  For  Luck  is  but  the  man  himself,  and  Fate 
deals  only  with  great  questions ;  but  Chance  attacks  all 
irrelevantly  and  at  random.  Though  man  avoids,  ar 
ranges,  labors,  and  plans,  one  stroke  from  its  wand  de 
stroys  all.  Anne  had  avoided,  arranged,  labored,  and 
planned,  yet  on  her  way  to  give  the  third  lesson  to  this 
new  pupil  she  came  suddenly  upon — Helen. 

On  the  opposite  side  a  carriage  had  stopped ;  the  foot 
man  opened  the  door,  and  a  servant  came  from  the  house 
to  assist  its  occupant.  Anne's  eyes  by  chance  were  rest 
ing  upon  the  group.  She  saw  a  lady  lifted  to  the  pave 
ment;  then  saw  her  slowly  ascend  the  house  steps,  while 
a  maid  followed  with  shawls  and  wraps.  It  was  Helen. 
Anne's  eyes  recognized  her  instantly.  She  was  un 
changed — proud,  graceful,  and  exquisitely  attired  as  ever, 
in  spite  of  her  slow  step  and  need  of  assistance.  Invol 
untarily  the  girl  opposite  had  paused;  then,  recovering 
herself,  she  drew  down  her  veil  and  walked  on,  her 
heart  beating  rapidly,  her  breath  coming  in  throbs.  But 
no  one  had  noticed  her.  Helen  was  already  within  the 


"SAW   HER   SLOWLY    ASCEND   THE    HOUSE    STEPS.' 


ANNE.  409 

house,  and  the  servant  was  closing  the  door ;  then  the  foot 
man  came  down  the  steps,  sprang  up  to  his  place,  and  the 
carriage  rolled  away. 

She  went  011  to  her  pupil's  residence,  and,  quietly  as 
she  could,  asked,  upon  the  first  opportunity,  her  question. 

"A  lady  who  was  assisted  up  the  steps?  Oh  yes,  I 
know  whom  you  mean;  it  is  Mrs.  Ward  Heathcote,"  re 
plied  the  girl-pupil.  "Isn't  she  too  lovely!  Did  you 
see  her  face  ?" 

"Yes.     Does  she  live  in  that  house  ?" 

"I  am  delighted  to  say  that  she  does.  She  used  to 
live  with  her  aunt,  Miss  Teller,  but  it  seems  that  she  in 
herited  this  old  house  over  here  from  her  grandfather, 
who  died  not  long  ago,  and  she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  live 
in  it.  Of  course  I  think  all  her  fancies  are  seraphic,  and 
principally  this  one,  since  it  has  brought  her  near  us.  I 
look  at  her  half  the  time ;  just  gaze  and  gaze !"  Cora  was 
sixteen,  and  very  pretty ;  she  talked  in  the  dialect  of  her 
age  and  set.  Launched  now  on  a  favorite  topic,  she  rush 
ed  on,  while  the  teacher,  with  downcast  eyes,  listened,  and 
rolled  and  unrolled  the  sheet  of  music  in  her  hands.  Mrs. 
Heathcote's  beauty ;  Mrs.  Heathcote's  wealth  ;  Mrs. 
Heathcote's  wonderful  costumes;  Mrs.  Heathcote's  ro 
mantic  marriage,  after  a  fall  from  her  carriage;  Mrs. 
Heathcote's  husband,  ' '  chivalrously  in  the  army,  with  a 
pair  of  eyes,  Miss  Douglas,  which,  I  do  assure  you,  are — 
well,  murderously  beautiful  is  not  a  word  to  express  it! 
Not  that  he  cares.  The  most  indifferent  person !  Still, 
if  you  could  see  them,  you  would  know  what  I  mean." 
Cora  told  all  that  she  knew,  and  more  than  she  knew. 
The  two  households  had  no  acquaintance,  Anne  learned ; 
the  school-girl  had  obtained  her  information  from  other 
sources.  There  would,  then,  be  no  danger  of  discovery 
in  that  way.  The  silent  listener  could  not  help  listening 
while  Cora  said  that  Captain  Heathcote  had  not  returned 
home  since  his  first  departure ;  that  he  had  been  seriously 
ill  somewhere  in  the  West,  but  having  recovered,  had  im 
mediately  returned  to  his  regiment  without  coming  home 
on  furlough,  as  others  always  did,  after  an  illness,  or  even 
the  pretense  of  one,  which  conduct  Cora  considered  so 


410  ANNE. 

"perfectly  grand"  that  she  wondered  "the  papers"  did 
not ' '  blazon  it  aloft. "  At  last  even  the  school-girl's  volu 
bility  and  adjectives  were  exhausted,  and  the  monologue 
came  to  an  end.  Then  the  teacher  gave  her  lesson,  and 
the  words  she  had  heard  sounded  in  her  ears  like  the  roar 
of  the  sea  in  a  storm — it  seemed  as  though  she  must  be 
speaking  loudly  in  order  to  drown  it.  But  her  pupil  no 
ticed  nothing,  save  that  Miss  Douglas  was  more  quiet  than 
usual,  and  perhaps  more  pale.  When  she  went  away,  she 
turned  eastward,  in  order  not  to  pass  the  house  a  second 
time — the  house  that  held  Helen.  But  she  need  not  have 
taken  the  precaution;  hers  was  not  a  figure  upon  which 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Heathcote  would  be  likely  to  dwell.  In 
the  city,  unfashionable  attire  is  like  the  ring  of  Gyges,  it 
renders  the  wearer,  if  not  invisible,  at  least  unseen. 

That  night  she  could  not  sleep ;  she  could  do  nothing 
but  think  of  Helen,  Helen,  her  once  dearly  loved  friend 
— Helen,  his  wife.  She  knew  that  she  must  give  up  this 
new  danger,  and  she  knew  also  that  she  loved  the  danger 
— these  chances  of  a  glimpse  of  Helen,  Helen's  home,  and 
— yes,  it  might  be,  at  some  future  time,  Helen's  husband. 
But  she  conquered  herself  again.  In  the  morning  she 
wrote  a  note  to  Cora's  mother,  saying  that  she  found  her 
self  unable  to  continue  the  lessons ;  as  Cora  had  the  man 
uscript  music-books  which  Dr.  Douglas  had  himself  pre 
pared  for  his  daughter  when  she  was  a  little  girl  on  the 
island,  she  added  that  she  would  come  for  them  on  Mon 
day,  and  at  the  same  time  take  leave  of  her  pupil,  from 
whom  she  parted  with  regret. 

Saturday  and  Sunday  now  intervened.  At  the  choir 
rehearsal  on  Saturday  a  foreboding  came  over  her;  oc 
cult  malign  influences  seemed  hovering  in  the  air.  The 
tenor  and  organist,  the  opposition  party,  were  ominous 
ly  affable.  In  this  church  there  was,  as  in  many  anoth 
er,  an  anomalous  "music  committee,"  composed  appar 
ently  of  vestrymen,  but  in  reality  of  vestrymen's  wives. 
These  wives,  spurred  on  secretly  by  the  tenor  and  organ 
ist,  had  decided  that  Miss  Douglas  was  not  the  kind  of  so 
prano  they  wished  to  have.  She  came  into  the  city  by 
train  011  the  Sabbath  day ;  she  was  dressed  so  plainly  and 


ANNE.  411 

imfashioiiably  that  it  betokened  a  want  of  proper  respect 
for  the  coiig'regatioii ;  in  addition,  and  in  spite  of  this 
plain  attire,  there  was  something1  about  her  which  made 
"the  gentlemen  turn  and  look  at  her.''  This  last  was 
the  fatal  accusation.  Poor  Anne  could  not  have  dis 
proved  these  charges,  even  if  she  had  known  what  they 
were;  but  she  did  not.  Her  foreboding  of  trouble  had 
not  been  at  fault  however,  for  on  Monday  morning  came 
a  formal  note  of  dismissal,  worded  with  careful  polite 
ness  ;  her  services  would  not  be  required  after  the  follow 
ing  Sunday.  It  was  a  hard  blow.  But  the  vestrymen's 
wives  preferred  the  other  candidate  (friend  of  the  organist 
and  tenor),  who  lived  with  her  mother  in  the  city,  and 
patronized  no  Sunday  trains ;  whose  garments  were  nicely 
adjusted  to  the  requirements  of  the  position,  following  the 
fashions  carefully  indeed,  but  at  a  distance,  and  with 
chastened  salaried  humility  as  well ;  who  sang  correctly, 
but  with  none  of  that  fervor  which  the  vestrymen's  wives 
considered  so  "out  of  place  in  a  church" ;  and  whose  face 
certainly  had  none  of  those  outlines  and  hues  which  so 
reprehensibly  attracted  "the  attention  of  the  gentle 
men."  And  thus  Anne  was  dismissed. 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  morning.  The  scantily  furnish 
ed  rooms  of  the  half -house  looked  dreary  and  blank;  old 
Nora,  groaning  with  rheumatism,  sat  drawn  up  beside  the 
kitchen  stove.  Anne,  who  had  one  French  lesson  to  give, 
and  the  farewell  visit  to  make  at  the  residence  of  Mrs. 
Iverson,  Cora's  mother,  went  in  to  the  city.  She  gave 
the  lesson,  and  then  walked  down  to  the  Scheffels'  lodg 
ing  to  bear  the  dark  tidings  of  her  dismissal.  The  musical 
instrument  maker's  window  was  frosted  nearly  to  the  top ; 
but  he  had  made  a  round  hole  inside  with  a  hot  penny, 
and  he  was  looking  through  it  when  Anne  rang  the  street 
bell.  It  was  startling  to  see  a  human  eye  so  near,  iso 
lated  by  the  frost-work — an  eye  and  nothing  more;  but 
she  was  glad  he  could  amuse  himself  even  after  that 
solitary  fashion.  Heir  Scheff el  had  not  returned  from  his 
round  of  lessons.  Anne  waited  some  time  in  the  small 
warm  crowded  room,  where  growing  plants,  canary- 
birds,  little  plaster  busts  of  the  great  musicians,  the  piano, 


412  ANNE. 

and  the  stove  crowded  each  other  cheerfully,  but  he  did 
not  come.  Mrs.  Scheffel  urged  her  to  remain  all  night. 
1 '  It  ees  zo  beetter  cold. "  But  Anne  took  leave,  promising 
to  come  again  on  the  morrow.  It  was  after  four  o'clock, 
and  darkness  was  not  far  distant;  the  piercing  wind 
swept  through  the  streets,  blowing  the  flinty  dust  before 
it;  the  ground  was  frozen  hard  as  steel.  She  made  her 
farewell  visit  at  Mrs.  Iverson's,  took  her  music-books,  and 
said  good-by,  facing  the  effusive  regrets  of  Cora  as  well 
as  she  could,  and  trying  not  to  think  how  the  money 
thus  relinquished  would  be  doubly  needed  now.  Then 
she  went  forth  into  the  darkening  street,  the  door  of  the 
wrarm,  brightly  lighted  home  closing  behind  her  like  a 
knell.  She  had  chosen  twilight  purposely  for  this  last 
visit,  in  order  that  she  might  neither  see  nor  be  seen.  She 
shivered  now  as  the  wind  struck  her,  clasped  the  heavy 
books  with  one  arm,  and  turned  westward  on  her  way 
to  the  railway  station.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  city 
held  that  night  no  girl  so  desolate  as  herself. 

As  she  was  passing  the  street  lamp  at  the  first  corner, 
some  one  stopped  suddenly.  ' '  Good  heavens  !  Miss 
Douglas — Anne— is  that  you  ?"  said  a  voice.  She  looked 
up.  It  was  Gregory  Dexter. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"Loke  who  that.  .  .  .most  intendeth  ay 
To  do  the  generous  deedes  that  he  «an, 
And  take  him  for  the  greatest  gentleman." 

— CHAUCER. 

"ANNE !     Is  it  you  ?"  repeated  Dexter. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  having  seen  that  it  was  impossible 
to  escape,  since  he  was  standing  directly  in  her  path. 
Then  she  tried  to  smile.  "I  should  not  have  thought 
you  would  have  known  me  in  this  twilight." 

"I  believe  I  should  know  you  anywhere,  even  in  total 
darkness.  But  where  are  you  going  ?  I  will  accompany 
you." 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  X  station,  to  take  a  train." 


ANNE.  413 

* '  Let  me  carry  those  books  for  you.  X  station  ?  That 
is  at  some  distance ;  would  it  not  be  better  to  have  a  car' 
riage  ?  Here,  boy,  run  and  call  a  carriage.  There  will 
be  a  half-dollar  for  you  if  you  make  haste." 

He  was  the  same  as  ever,  prompt,  kind,  and  disposed 
to  have  his  own  way.  But  Anne,  who  on  another  occa 
sion  might  have  objected,  now  stood  beside  him  unop- 
posing.  She  ii'as  weary,  cold,  and  disheartened,  and  she 
u-as  glad  he  was  there.  He  had  made  her  take  his  arm 
immediately,  and  even  that  small  support  was  comfort 
ing.  The  carriage  came,  they  rolled  away,  Anne  lean 
ing  back  against  the  cushions,  and  breathing  in  the  grate 
ful  sense  of  being  cared  for  and  protected,  taken  from 
the  desolate  and  darkening  streets  which  otherwise  she 
must  have  traversed  alone. 

"I  only  arrived  in  town  to-day,"  Dexter  was  saying; 
"and,  on  my  way  to  a  friend's  house  where  I  am  to  dine, 
I  intended  calling  upon  Mrs.  Heathcote.  I  was  going 
there  when  I  met  you.  I  should  have  inquired  about 
you  immediately,  for  I  have  but  just  seen  the  account  of 
the  disposal  of  Miss  Vanhorn's  estate,  and  was  thinking 
of  you.  I  supposed,  Miss  Douglas,  that  you  were  to  be  her 
heir." 

"No." 

"She  certainly  allowed  me  to  suppose  so." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  ever  had  any  such  intention,"  re 
plied  Anne. 

"You  are  living  near  the  city  ?" 

"Yes;  at  Lancaster.     I  give  lessons  in  town." 

' '  And  you  come  in  and  out  on  these  freezing  days,  and 
walk  to  and  from  the  station  ?lf 

"  It  is  not  always  so  cold." 

"Very  well ;  I  am  going  as  far  as  Lancaster  with  you," 
said  Dexter.  "I  hope  I  shall  be  welcome." 

"  Mr.  Dexter,  please  do  not." 

But  he  simply  smiled  and  threw  back  his  head  in  his 
old  dictatorial  way,  helped  her  from  the  carriage,  bought 
tickets,  secured  for  her  the  best  seat  in  the  car,  and  took 
his  place  beside  her ;  it  seemed  to  Anne  that  but  a  few  min 
utes  had  passed  when  they  heard  "Lancaster, "and  step- 


414  AiNNE. 

ping  out  on  the  little  platform,  found  the  faithful  Li  in 
waiting,  his  comforter  tied  over  his  ears,  and  jumping  up 
and  down  to  keep  himself  warm.  Anne  had  not  ordered 
the  red  wagon,  and  he  was  not  therefore  allowed  to  bring 
it  out ;  but  the  little  freckled  knight-errant  had  brought 
himself  instead  as  faithful  escort  homeward. 

"  Is  there  no  carriage  here,  or  any  sort  of  a  vehicle  ?" 
said  Dexter,  in  his  quick,  authoritative  way.  "Boy, 
bring  a  carriage." 

"There  ain't  none;  but  you  can  have  the  red  wagon. 
Horse  good,  and  wagon  first-rate.  It  '11  be  a  dollar," 
answered  Li. 

"Go  and  get  it,  then." 

The  boy  was  gone  like  a  dart,  and  in  less  time  than 
any  one  else  would  have  taken,  he  was  back  with  the 
wagon,  and  Mr.  Dexter  (in  spite  of  her  remonstrance)  was 
accompanying  Anne  homeward  in  the  icy  darkness. 
"But  you  will  lose  the  return  train,"  she  said. 

"I  intend  to  lose  it." 

When  they  stopped  at  the  gate,  no  light  was  visible ; 
Anne  knocked,  but  crippled  old  Nora  was  long  in  com 
ing.  When  she  did  open  the  door,  it  was  a  room  nearly 
as  cold  as  the  air  outside  into  which  the  guest  was  usher 
ed.  As  Li  was  obliged  to  return  with  the  horse,  his  will 
ing  hands  were  absent,  and  the  young  mistress  of  the 
house  went  out  herself,  brought  in  candles  and  kindling- 
wood,  and  was  stooping  to  light  the  fire,  when  Dexter 
took  the  wood  from  her,  led  her  to  a  chair,  seated  her  des 
potically,  and  made  the  fire  himself.  Then,  standing  be 
fore  it,  he  looked  all  round  the  room,  slowly  and  mark 
edly  and  in  silence ;  afterward  his  eyes  came  back  to  her. 
"So  this  is  where  you  live — all  the  home  you  have !" 

"It  is  but  a  temporary  home.  Some  day  I  hope  to 
go  back  to  the  island, "replied  Anne. 

' '  When  you  have,  by  teaching,  made  money  enough  to 
live  upon,  I  suppose.  It  looks  like  it  here,"  he  said,  with 
sarcastic  emphasis. 

"It  has  not  been  so  cold  before,"  answered  Anne. 
"The  house  has  an  empty  look,  I  acknowledge;  that  is 
because  I  supposed  it  was  furnished ;  but  finding  it  bare, 


ANNS.  415 

I  decided  to  purchase  only  necessary  articles.  "What  is 
the  use  of  buying-  much  for  a  temporary  home  ?" 

"  Of  course.  So  much  better  to  do  without,  especially 
in  this  weather!" 

"I  assure  you  we  have  not  been  uncomfortable  until, 
perhaps,  to-night." 

' '  May  I  ask  the  amount,  Miss  Douglas,  of  your  present 
income  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  you  ought  to  ask,"  said  the  poverty- 
stricken  young  mistress,  bravely. 

' '  But  I  do  ask.     And  you — will  answer. " 

"It  has  been,  although  not  large,  sufficient  for  our 
needs,"  replied  Anne,  who,  in  spite  of  her  desire  to  hide 
the  truth  from  him,  was  yet  unable  to  put  the  statement 
into  the  present  tense ;  but  she  hoped  that  he  would  not 
notice  it. 

On  the  contrary,  however,  Dexter  answered  instantly : 
1 '  Has  been  ?  Then  it  is  not  now  ?" 

"I  have  recently  lost  my  place  in  a  church  choir; 
but  I  hope  soon  to  obtain  another  position." 

' '  And  in  the  mean  time  you  live  on — hope  ?  Forgive 
me  if  I  seem  inquisitive  and  even  harsh,  Miss  Douglas; 
but  you  do  not  realize  how  all  this  impresses  me.  The 
last  time  I  saw  you  you  were  richly  dressed,  a  favorite 
in  a  luxurious  circle,  the  reputed  heiress  of  a  large  for 
tune.  Little  more  than  a  year  passes,  and  I  meet  you 
in  the  street  at  twilight,  alone  and  desolate;  I  come  to 
your  home,  and  find  it  cold  and  empty ;  I  look  at  you, 
and  note  your  dress.  You  can  offer  me  nothing,  hardly 
a  fire.  It  hurts  me,  Anne — hurts  me  deeply — to  think 
that  all  this  time  I  have  had  every  luxury,  while  you 
have  suffered." 

"No,  not  suffered,"  she  replied.  But  her  voice  trem 
bled.  This  strong  assertive  kindness  touched  her  lonely 
heart  keenly. 

"Then  if  you  have  not  suffered  as  yet — and  I  am 
thankful  to  hear  you  say  it — you  will  suffer ;  or  rather 
you  might  have  suffered  if  I  had  not  met  you  in  time. 
But  never  again,  Anne — never  again.  Why,  my  child, 
do  you  not  remember  that  I  begged  you  to  be  my  wife  2 


416  ANNE. 

Shall  she  who,  if  she  had  willed  it,  would  now  have  been 
so  near  and  dear  to  me,  be  left  to  encounter  toil  and  pri 
vation,  while  /have  abundance  ?  Never,  Anne — never !" 

He  left  his  place,  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  in  his 
warm  grasp.  There  was  nothing  save  friendly  earnest 
ness  in  his  eyes  as  they  met  her  upward  look,  and  seeing 
this,  she  felt  herself  leaning  as  it  were  in  spirit  upon 
him:  she  had  indeed  need  of  aid.  He  smiled,  and  com 
prehended  all  without  another  word. 

"I  must  go  on  the  ten-o'clock  train, "he  said,  cheer 
fully,  coming  back  to  daily  life  again.  ''And  before  I 
go,  in  some  way  or  another,  that  good  Irish  goblin  of 
yours  must  manufacture  a  supper  for  me;  from  appear 
ances,  I  should  say  she  had  only  to  wave  her  broom 
stick.  When  I  met  you  I  was  011  my  way  to  dine  with 
some  friends.  What  their  estimation  of  me  is  at  this  mo 
ment  I  am  afraid  to  think ;  but  that  does  not  make  me 
any  the  less  hungry.  With  your  permission,  therefore, 
I  will  take  off  this  heavy  overcoat,  and  dine  here."  As 
he  spoke  he  removed  his  large  shaggy  overcoat — a  hand 
some  f  ur-liiied  Canadian  garment,  suited  to  his  strong  fig 
ure  and  the  bitter  weather,  appearing  in  evening  dress, 
with  a  little  spray  of  fern  in  his  button-hole.  "Now,"  he 
said,  ' '  I  am  going  out  to  plead  with  the  goblin  in  person." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Anne,  laughing,  won  from  her  de 
pression  by  his  buoyant  manner. 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  will  stay;  and  not  only  that, 
but  seated  precisely  where  I  placed  you.  I  will  en 
counter  the  goblin  alone."  He  opened  the  door,  went 
through,  and  closed  it  behind  him.  Soon  Anne  heard  the 
sound  of  laughter  in  the  kitchen,  not  only  old  Nora's 
hearty  Irish  mirth,  but  Li's  shriller  voice  added  to  it. 
For  the  faithful  Li  had  hastened  back,  after  the  old  horse 
was  housed,  in  order  to  be  in  readiness  if  Miss  Douglas, 
owing  to  her  unexpected  visitor,  required  anything. 
What  Dexter  said  and  did  in  that  bare,  dimly  lighted 
kitchen  that  night  was  never  known,  save  from  results. 
But  certainly  he  inspired  both  Nora,  Li,  and  the  stove. 
He  returned  to  the  parlor,  made  up  the  fire  with  so  much 
skill  that  it  shone  out  brightly,  and  then  sat  down,  allow- 


ANNE.  417 

ing  Anne  to  do  nothing  save  lean  back  in  the  low  chair, 
which  he  had  cushioned  for  her  with  his  shaggy  coat. 
Before  long  Li  came  in,  first  with  four  lighted  candles  in 
new  candlesticks,  which  he  disposed  about  the  room  ac 
cording  to  his  taste,  and  then,  later,  with  table-cloth  and 
plates  for  the  diniiig-table.  The  boy's  face  glowed  with 
glee  and  exercise ;  he  had  already  been  to  the  store  twice 
011  a  run,  and  returned  loaded  and  breathless,  but  tri 
umphant.  After  a  while  pleasant  odors  began  to  steal  in 
from  the  kitchen,  underneath  all  the  inspiring  fragrance 
of  coffee.  At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Nora  herself  hob 
bled  in,  bringing  a  covered  dish,  and  then  a  second,  and 
then  a  third,  Li  excitedly  handing  them  to  her  from 
the  kitchen  entrance.  When  her  ambition  was  aroused, 
the  old  Irishwoman  was  a  good  cook.  It  had  been 
aroused  to-night  by  Dexter's  largess,  and  the  result  was 
an  appetizing  although  nondescript  repast,  half  dinner, 
half  high-tea.  The  room  was  now  brightly  illuminated ; 
the  fire-light  danced  on  the  bare  floor.  Dexter,  standing 
by  the  table,  tall  and  commanding,  his  face  full  of  friend 
liness,  seemed  to  Anne  a  personification  of  kindly  aid 
and  strength.  She  no  longer  made  any  objection,  but 
obeyed  him  smilingly,  even  as  to  where  she  should  sit,  and 
what  she  should  eat.  His  sudden  appearance,  at  the  mo 
ment  of  all  others  when  everything  seemed  to  have  failed, 
was  comfort  too  penetrating  to  be  resisted.  And  why 
should  it  be  resisted  ?  There  was  no  suggestion  in  his 
manner  of  a  return  to  the  old  subject ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  had  himself  spoken  of  it  as  a  thing  of  the  past.  He 
would  not  repeat  his  old  request — would  not  wish  to  re 
peat  it. 

After  the  repast  was  over,  and  Nora  and  Li  were  joy 
ously  feasting  in  the  kitchen,  he  drew  his  chair  nearer  to 
hers,  and  said,  "Now  tell  me  about  yourself,  and  what 
your  life  has  been  since  we  parted."  For  up  to  this  time, 
after  those  few  strong  words  in  the  beginning,  he  had 
spoken  only  on  general  topics,  or  at  least  upon  those 
not  closely  connected  with  herself. 

Anne,  however,  merely  outlined  her  present  life  and 
position,  clearly,  but  without  explanation. 

27 


418  ANNE. 

"And  Mrs.  Heathcote  does  not  know  you  are  here  ?" 

' '  She  does  not  know,  and  she  must  not  know.  I  have 
your  promise,  Mr.  Dexter,  to  reveal  nothing." 

"  You  have  my  promise,  and  I  will  keep  it.  Still,  I  do 
not  comprehend — 

"  It  is  not  possible  that  you  should  comprehend.  And 
in  addition  to  keeping  my  secret,  Mr.  Dexter,  you  must 
tell  me  nothing  of  her,  or  of  any  of  the  people  who  were 
at  Caryl's." 

"  It  is  a  great  gulf  fixed  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence ;  she  was  quiet  and  thought 
ful,  her  gaze  resting  on  the  fire.  After  a  while  she  said 
again,  "You  will  remember  ?" 

"Yes.     I  never  had  the  talent  of  forgetting." 

Soon  afterward  he  went  away,  with  Li  as  guide.  As 
he  took  her  hand  at  parting,  he  said,  ' '  Are  you  coming 
in  to  the  city  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes;  I  must  see  Herr  Scheffel." 

"Will  you  let  me  meet  you  somewhere  ?" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  answered,  "I  would 
rather  not." 

* '  As  you  please.  But  I  shall  come  and  see  you  on 
Wednesday,  then.  Good-night. "  He  went  out  in  the  in 
tense  country  darkness,  preceded  by  Li,  who  had  dis 
posed  his  comforter  about  him  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
look  as  much  as  possible  like  the  shaggy  overcoat,  which, 
in  his  eyes,  was  fit  for  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias  in  his 
diamond  crown. 

The  next  day  was  even  colder.  Anne  went  in  to  the 
city,  gave  one  lesson,  and  then  faced  the  bitter  wind 
on  her  way  down  to  Herr  Seheffel's  lodgings.  Her 
heart  was  not  so  heavy,  in  spite  of  the  cold,  as  it  had 
been  the  day  before,  since  between  that  time  and  this  she 
had  heard  the  cordial  voice  of  a  friend. 

The  musical  instrument  maker's  window  was  entirely 
frozen  over,  the  frost  was  like  a  white  curtain  shutting- 
him  out  from  the  world ;  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  he  found 
comfort  in  playing  on  his  tambourine  within.  This  time 
Herr  Scheffel  was,  at  home,  and  he  had  a  hope  concerning 


ANNE.  419 

a  place  in  another  choir.  Anne  returned  to  Lancaster 
cheered.  As  she  walked  homeward  from  the  railway 
station  down  the  hard  country  road,  darkness  was  fall 
ing-,  and  she  wondered  why  the  faithful  Li  was  not  there 
as  usual  to  meet  her.  When  she  came  within  sight  of 
the  half-house,  it  was  blazing-  with  light ;  from  every  win 
dow  radiance  streamed,  smoke  ascended  from  the  chim 
neys,  and  she  could  see  figures  within  moving  about  as  if 
at  work.  What  could  it  mean  ?  She  went  up  the  steps, 
opened  the  door,  and  entered.  Was  this  her  barren 
home? 

Workmen  were  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  what 
seemed  to  have  been  an  afternoon's  labor;  Li,  in  a  fever 
of  excitement,  was  directing  everybody.  Through  the 
open  door  Nora  could  be  seen  moving  to  and  fro  amid 
barrels,  boxes,  and  bags.  The  men  had  evidently  re 
ceived  their  orders,  for  as  soon  as  the  young  mistress  of 
the  house  appeared  they  hastily  concluded  their  labors, 
and,  taking  their  tools,  vanished  like  so  many  genii  of 
the  ring.  Anne  called  them  back,  but  they  were  already 
far  down  the  road.  Li  and  Nora  explained  together  that 
the  men  and  two  wagon-loads  of  furniture  had  arrived 
at  the  door  of  the  half-house  at  two  o'clock,  and  that  the 
head  workman,  showing  Mr.  Dexter's  card,  had  claimed 
entrance  and  liberty  to  carry  out  his  orders;  he  had  a 
rough  plan  of  the  rooms,  sketched  by  Dexter,  and  was  to 
follow  his  directions.  Li  and  Nora,  already  warm  ad 
herents,  entered  into  the  scheme  with  all  their  hearts,  and 
the  result  was  that  mademoiselle's  little  house  was  now 
carpeted,  and  warmed,  and  filled  from  top  to  bottom. 
The  bare  store-room  was  crowded,  the  cupboards  garnish 
ed  ;  there  were  easy  -  chairs,  curtains,  pictures,  and  even 
flowers— tea-roses  in  a  vase.  The  furniture  was  perhaps 
too  massive,  the  carpets  and  curtains  too  costly  for  the 
plain  abode;  Dexter  always  erred  on  the  side  of  mag 
nificence.  His  lavishness  had  been  brought  up  at  Caryl's 
as  a  testimony  against  him,  for  it  was  a  decided  evidence 
of  newness.  But  on  this  gloomy  freezing  winter  night 
no  one  could  have  the  heart  to  say  that  the  rich  fabrics 
were  not  full  of  comfort  both  to  the  eye  and  touch,  and 


420  ANNE. 

Anne,  sinking-  into  one  of  the  easy-chairs,  uncertain  what 
to  do,  was  at  least  not  at  all  uncertain  as  to  the  comfort 
of  the  cushioned  back ;  it  was  luxurious. 

Later,  in  her  own  room,  she  sat  looking  at  the  unex 
pected  gifts  which  faced  her  from  all  sides.  What  should 
she  do  ?  It  was  not  right  to  force  them  upon  her ;  and 
yet  how  like  him  was  the  lavish  quick  generosity !  In  her 
poverty  the  gift  seemed  enormous ;  yet  it  was  not.  The 
little  home  possessed  few  rooms,  had  seemed  hardly  more 
than  a  toy  house  to  the  city  workmen  who  had  hastily 
filled  it.  But  to  Anne  it  seemed  magical.  Books  had 
been  bought  for  her  also,  the  well-proved  standard  works 
which  Dexter  always  selected  for  his  own  reading.  In 
his  busy  life  this  American  had  not  had  time  to  study 
the  new  writers;  he  was  the  one  person  left  who  still 
quoted  Addison.  After  looking  at  the  books,  Anne,  open 
ing  the  closet  door  by  chance,  saw  a  long  cedar  case  upon 
the  floor ;  it  was  locked,  but  the  key  was  in  an  envelope 
bearing  her  name.  She  opened  the  case  ;  a  faint  fra 
grance  floated  out,  as,  from  its  wrappings,  she  drew  forth 
an  India  shawl,  dark,  rich,  and  costly  enough  for  a  duch 
ess.  There  was  a  note  inside  the  case  from  Dexter — 
a  note  hastily  written  in  pencil : 

"DEAR  Miss  DOUGLAS,— I  do  not  know  whether  this 
is  anything  you  can  wear,  but  at  least  it  is  warm.  On 
the  night  I  first  met  you  you  were  shivering,  and  I  have 
thought  of  it  ever  since.  Please  accept  the  shawl,  there 
fore,  and  the  other  trifles,  from  your  friend,  Gr.  D." 

The  trifles  were  furs— sable.  Here,  as  usual,  Dexter 
had  selected  the  costly ;  he  knew  no  other  way.  And 
thus  surrounded  by  all  the  new  luxury  of  the  room, 
with  the  shawl  and  the  furs  in  her  hands,  Anne  stood,  an 
image  of  perplexity. 

The  next  day  the  giver  came  out.  She  received  him 
gravely.  There  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  told  him 
that  he  had  not  won  her  approval. 

' '  Of  course  I  do  not  intend  to  trouble  you  often  with 
visits,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  his  furred  overcoat  to  Li. 


ANNE.  42i 

"But  one  or  two  may  be  allowed,  I  think,  from  such 
an  old  friend." 

"And  to  such  a  desolate  girl." 

"Desolate  no  longer,"  he  answered,  choosing  to  ig 
nore  the  reproach  of  the  phrase. 

He  installed  himself  in  one  of  the  new  arm-chairs 
(looking,  it  must  be  confessed,  much  more  comfortable 
than  before),  and  began  to  talk  in  a  fluent  general  way, 
approaching  no  topics  that  were  personal.  Meanwhile 
old  Nora,  hearing  from  Li  that  the  benefactor  of  the 
household  was  present,  appeared,  strong  in  the  new  rich 
ness  of  her  store-room,  at  the  door,  and  dropping  a  courte 
sy,  wished  to  know  at  what  hour  it  would  please  him 
to  dine.  She  said  "your  honor";  she  had  almost  said 
; '  your  highness. "  Her  homage  was  so  sincere  that  Anne 
smiled,  and  Dexter  laughed  outright. 

"You  see  I  am  expected  to  stay,  whether  you  wish  it 
or  not,"  he  said.  "Do  let  me;  it  shall  be  for  the  last 
time."  Then  turning  to  Nora,  he  said,  "At  four."  And 
with  another  reverence,  the  old  w^oman  withdrew. 

"  It  is  a  viciously  disagreeable  afternoon.  You  would 
not,  I  think,  have  the  heart  to  turn  out  even  a  dog,"  he 
continued,  leaning  back  at  ease,  and  looking  at  his  host 
ess,  his  eyes  shining  with  amusement:  he  wTas  reading 
her  objections,  and  triumphing  over  them.  Then,  as  he 
saw  her  soberness  deepen,  he  grew"  grave  immediately. 
"I  am  staying  to-day  because  I  wish  to  talk  with  you, 
Anne,"  he  said.  "I  shall  not  come  again.  I  know  as 
well  as  you  do,  of  course,  that  you  can  not  receive  me 
while  you  have  no  better  chaperon  than  Nora."  He 
paused,  looking  at  her  downcast  face.  ' '  You  do  not  like 
what  I  have  done  ?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"You  have  loaded  me  with  too  heavy  an  obligation." 

"Any  other  reason  ?" 

"I  can  never  repay  you." 

"  In  addition  ?" 

"It  is  not  right  that  you  should  treat  me  as  though  I 
were  a  child." 


422  ANNE. 

"  I  knew  you  would  object,  and  strongly;  yet  I  hope 
to  bring-  you  over  yet  to  my  view  of  the  case,"  said  Dex 
ter.  "You  say  that  I  have  placed  you  under  too  heavy 
an  obligation.  But  pray  consider  what  a  slight  affair 
the  little  gift  seems  to  me.  The  house  is  very  small;  I 
have  spent  but  a  few  hundreds ;  in  all,  with  the  exception 
of  the  shawl  and  furs,  not  much  over  five.  What  is  that 
to  an  income  like  mine  ?  You  say  you  can  never  repay 
me.  You  repay  me  by  accepting.  It  seems  to  me  a  noble 
quality  to  accept,  simply  and  generously  accept ;  and  I 
have  believed  that  yours  was  a  noble  nature.  Accept, 
then,  generously  what  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  give. 
On  my  own  side,  I  say  this :  the  woman  Gregory  Dexter 
once  asked  to  be  his  wife  shall  not  suffer  from  want  while 
Gregory  Dexter  lives,  and  knows  where  to  find  her.  This 
has  nothing  to  do  with  you;  it  is  my  side  of  the  subject." 

He  spoke  with  much  feeling.  Anne  looked  at  him. 
Then  she  rose,  and  with  quiet  dignity  gave  him,  as  he 
rose  also,  her  hand.  He  understood  the  silent  little  action. 
"You  have  answered  my  expectation,"  he  said,  and  the 
subject  was  at  an  end  forever. 

After  dinner,  in  the  twilight,  he  spoke  again.  "You 
said,  an  hour  or  two  ago,  that  I  had  treated  you  as 
though  you  were  a  child.  It  is  true;  for  you  were  a 
child  at  Caryl's,  and  I  remembered  you  as  you  were  then. 
But  you  are  much  changed ;  looking  at  you  now,  it  is  im 
possible  that  I  should  ever  think  of  you  in  the  same 
way  again." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Can  you  tell  me  nothing  of  yourself,  of  your  person 
al  life  since  we  parted  ?  Your  engagement,  for  instance  ?" 

"It  is  ended.  Mr.  Pronando  is  married;  he  married 
my  sister.  You  did  not  see  the  notice  ?"  (Anne's 
thoughts  were  back  in  the  West  Virginia  farm-house 
now  with  the  folded  slip  of  newspaper.) 

' '  No ;  I  was  in  the  far  West  until  April.  I  did  not  come 
eastward  until  the  war  broke  out.  Then  you  are  free, 
Anne  ?  Do  not  be  afraid  to  tell  me ;  I  remember  every 
word  you  said  in  Miss  Vanhorn's  little  red  parlor,  and 
I  shall  not  repeat  my  mistake.  You  are,  then,  free  ?" 


ANNE.  423 

"I  can  not  answer  you.'' 

."  Then  I  will  not  ask ;  it  all  belongs  to  the  one  subject, 
I  suppose.  The  only  part  intrusted  to  me— the  secret  of 
your  being  here— I  will  religiously  guard.  As  to  your 
present  life— you  would  rather  let  this  Herr  Scheff el  con 
tinue  looking  for  a  place  for  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  will  not  interfere.  But  I  shall  write  to  you  now 
and  then,  and  you  must  answer.  If  at  the  end  of  a 
month  you  have  not  obtained  this  position  you  are  hoping 
for— in  a  church  choir,  is  it  not  ?— you  must  let  me  know. 
Will  you  promise  ?" 

"  I  promise." 

"And  bear  in  mind  this :  you  shall  never  be  left  friend 
less  again  while  I  am  on  earth  to  protect  you." 

' '  But  I  have  110  right  to — 

"•  Yes,  you  have;  you  have  been  more  to  me  than  you 
know."  Here  he  paused,  and  looked  away  as  if  debating 
with  himself.  ' '  I  have  always  intended  that  you  should 
know  it  some  time,"  he  continued;  "perhaps  this  is  as 
good  a  time  as  any.  Will  you  listen  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  settled  himself  anew  in  his  chair,  meditated  a  mo 
ment,  and  then,  with  all  his  natural  fluency,  which  no 
thing  could  abate,  with  the  self -absorption  which  men  of 
his  temperament  always  show  when  speaking  of  them 
selves,  and  yet  with  a  certain  guarded  look  at  Anne  too 
all  the  while,  as  if  curious  to  see  how  she  would  take  his 
words,  he  began : 

' '  You  know  what  my  life  has  been— that  is,  general 
ly.  What  I  wish  to  tell  you  now  is  an  inner  phase. 
When,  at  the  beginning  of  middle  age,  at  last  I  had  gain 
ed  the  wealth  I  always  intended  to  have,  I  decided  that  I 
would  marry.  I  wished  to  have  a  home.  Of  course, 
during  all  those  toiling  years,  I  had  not  been  without 
what  are  called  love  affairs,  but  I  was  far  too  intensely 
absorbed  in  my  own  purposes  to  spend  much  time  upon 
them.  Besides,  I  had  preserved  an  ideal. 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  conceal  or  deny  that  I  am  am 
bitious  ;  I  made  a  deliberate  effort  to  gain  admittance  into 


424  ANNE. 

what  is  called  the  best  society  in  the  Eastern  cities,  and 
in  a  measure  I  succeeded.  I  enjoyed  the  life ;  it  was  an 
other  world ;  hut  still,  wherever  I  went  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  women  were  artificial.  Beautiful,  attractive, 
women  I  could  not  help  admiring-,  but — not  like  my  ideal 
of  what  my  wife  must  be.  They  would  never  make  for 
me  that  home  I  coveted ;  for  while  I  stood  ready  to  sur 
round  that  home  with  luxury,  in  its  centre  I  wanted,  for 
myself  alone,  a  true  and  loving  heart,  a  heart  absorbed  in 
me.  And  then,  while  I  knew  that  I  wanted  this,  while  I 
still  cherished  my  old  ideal  closely,  what  did  I  do  ?  I 
began  to  love  Rachel  Bannert ! 

"You  look  at  me;  you  do  not  understand  why  I  speak 
in  that  tone.  It  is  as  well  that  you  should  not.  I  can 
only  say  that  I  worshipped  her.  It  was  not  her  fault 
that  I  began  to  love  her,  but  it  was  her  fault  that  I  was 
borne  on  so  far ;  for  she  made  me  believe  that  she  loved 
me ;  she  gave  me  the  privileges  of  a  lover.  I  never 
doubted  (how  could  I  ?)  that  she  would  be  my  wife  in 
the  end,  although,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  she  wished  to 
keep  the  engagement,  for  the  time  being,  a  secret.  I  sub 
mitted,  because  I  loved  her.  And  then,  when  I  was  help 
less,  because  I  was  so  sure  of  her,  she  turned  upon  me 
and  cast  me  off.  Like  a  worn-out  glove ! 

"Anne,  I  could  not  believe  it.  We  were  in  the  ra 
vine  ;  she  had  strolled  off  in  that  direction,  as  though  by 
chance,  and  I  had  followed  her.  I  asked  her  what  she 
meant:  no  doubt  I  looked  like  a  dolt.  She  laughed  in 
my  face.  It  seemed  that  she  had  only  been  amusing  her 
self  ;  that  she  had  never  had  any  intention  of  marrying  me ; 
a  '  comedy  of  the  summer. '  But  no  one  laughs  in  my  face 
twice — not  even  a  woman.  When,  at  last,  I  understood 
her,  my  infatuation  vanished ;  and  I  said  some  words  to 
her  that  night  which  I  think  she  will  not  soon  forget. 
Then  I  turned  and  left  her. 

' '  Remember  that  this  was  no  boy  whose  feelings  she  had 
played  with,  whose  respect  she  had  forfeited ;  it  was  a  man, 
and  one  who  had  expected  to  find  in  this  Eastern  society  a 
perfection  of  delicacy  and  refinement  not  elsewhere  seen. 
I  scorned  myself  for  having  loved  her,  and  for  the  mo 


ANNE.  ^  425 

ment  I  scorned  all  women  too.  Then  it  was,  Anne,  that 
the  thought  of  you  saved  me.  I  said  to  myself  that  if 
you  would  be  my  wife,  I  could  be  happy  with  your  fresh 
sincerity,  and  not  sink  into  that  unbelieving,  disagreeable 
cynicism  which  I  had  always  despised  in  other  men.  Act 
ing  on  the  impulse,  I  asked  you. 

"I  did  not  love  you,  save  as  all  right-minded  men  love 
and  admire  a  sweet  young  girl;  but  I  believed  in  you; 
there  was  something  about  you  that  aroused  trust  and 
confidence.  Besides — I  tell  you  this  frankly — I  thought 
I  should  succeed.  I  certainly  did  not  want  to  be  re 
pulsed  twice  in  one  day.  I  see  now  that  I  was  misled 
by  Miss  Vanhorn.  But  I  did  not  see  it  then,  and  when 
I  spoke  to  you,  I  fully  expected  that  you  would  answer 
yes. 

' '  You  answered  no,  Anne,  but  you  still  saved  me.  I 
still  believed  in  you.  And  more  than  ever  after  that 
last  interview.  I  went  away  from  Caryl's  early  the  next 
morning,  and  two  days  later  started  for  the  West.  I  was 
hurt  through  and  through,  angry  with  myself,  disgusted 
with  life.  I  wanted  to  breathe  again  the  freedom  of  the 
border.  Yet  through  it  all  your  memory  was  with  me  as 
that  of  one  true,  pure,  steadfast  woman-heart  which  com 
pelled  me  to  believe  in  goodness  and  steadfastness  as  pos 
sibilities  in  Avomen,  although  I  myself  had  been  so  blind 
ly  befooled.  This  is  what  you,  although  unconsciously, 
have  done  for  me :  it  is  an  inestimable  service. 

"I  was  not  much  moved  from  my  disgust  until  some 
thing  occurred  which  swept  me  out  of  myself — I  mean 
the  breaking  out  of  the  war.  I  had  not  believed  in  its 
possibility;  but  when  the  first  gun  was  fired,  I  started 
eastward  at  an  hour's  notice."  Here  Dexter  rose,  and 
with  folded  arms  walked  to  and  fro  across  the  floor. 
"The  class  of  people  you  met  at  Caryl's  used  to  smile  and 
shrug  their  shoulders  over  what  is  called  patriotism — I 
think  they  are  smiling  no  longer." — (Here  Anne  remem 
bered  "After  that  attack  011  Fort  Sumter,  it  seemed  to  me 
the  only  thing  to  do")  "  but"  the  tidings  of  that  first  gun 
stirred  something  in  my  breast  which  is,  I  suppose,  what 
that  word  means.  As  soon  as  I  reached  Pennsylvania, 


426  ANNE. 

I  went  up  to  the  district  where  my  mines  are,  gathered 
together  and  equipped  all  the  volunteers  who  would  go. 
I  have  been  doing"  similar  work  on  a  larger  scale  ever 
since.  I  should  long  ago  have  been  at  the  front  in  per 
son  were  it  not  that  the  Governor  requires  my  presence 
at  home,  and  I  am  well  aware  also  that  I  am  worth  twen 
ty  times  more  in  matters  of  organization  than  I  should  be 
simply  as  one  more  man  in  the  field." 

This  was  true.  Gregory  Dexter's  remarkable  business 
powers  and  energy,  together  with  his  wealth,  force,  and 
lavish  liberality,  made  him  the  strong  arm  of  his  State 
throughout  the  entire  war. 

He  asked  for  no  comment  upon  his  story;  he  had  told 
it  briefly  as  a  series  of  facts.  But  from  it  he  hoped  that 
the  listener  would  draw  a  feeling  which  would  make  her 
rest  content  under  his  friendly  aid.  And  he  succeeded. 

But  before  he  went  away  she  told  him  that  while  ac 
cepting  all  the  house  contained,  she  would  rather  return 
those  of  his  gifts  which  had  been  personal  to  herself. 

"Why?" 

' '  I  would  rather  do  it,  but  I  do  not  know  how  to  ex 
plain  the  feeling,"  she  answered,  frankly,  although  her 
face  was  one  bright  blush. 

"  If  you  do  not,  I.  do,"  said  Dexter,  smiling,  and  look 
ing  at  her  with  the  beginnings  of  a  new  interest  in  his 
eyes.  ' '  As  you  please,  of  course,  althougft  I  did  try  to 
buy  a  good  shawl  for  you,  Anne.  Are  you  not  very 
poorly  dressed  ?" 

"Plainly  and  inexpensively.  Quite  warmly,  how 
ever." 

' '  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  the  things  ?  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  shall  do :  I  shall  keep  them  just  as  they  are, 
in  the  cedar  box.  Perhaps  some  day  you  will  accept 
them." 

She  shook  her  head.  But  he  only  smiled  back  in 
answer,  and  soon  afterward  he  went  away. 

The  next  day  she  sent  the  cedar  case  to  his  city  ad 
dress.  She  wrote  a  note  to  accompany  it,  and  then  de 
stroyed  it.  Why  should  she  write  ?  All  had  been  said. 

Before  the  month  was  quite  ended,  Herr  Scheffel  sue* 


ANNE.  427 

ceeded  in  obtaining  for  her  a  place  in  another  church 
choir.  It  was  a  small  church,  and  the  salary  was  not 
large,  but  she  was  glad  to  accept  it,  and  more  than  glad  to 
be  able  to  write  to  Mr.  Dexter  that  she  had  accepted  it. 
New  pupils  came  with  the  new  year ;  she  was  again  able 
to  send  money  to  Miss  Lois,  for  the  household  supplies, 
so  lavishly  provided,  were  sufficient  for  the  little  family 
throughout  the  winter. 

In  February,  being  again  in  New  York,  Dexter  came 
out  to  see  her.  It  was  a  wild  evening ;  the  wind  whistled 
round  the  house,  and  blew  the  hail  and  sleet  against  the 
panes.  Most  persons  would  have  remained  in  the  city ; 
but  after  one  look  at  Dexter's  face  and  figure,  no  one  ever 
spoke  to  him  about  the  weather.  Anne  had  received  a 
long  letter  from  Jeanne- Armande ;  she  showed  it  to  him. 
Also  one  from  Pere  Michaux.  "  I  feel  now,"  she  said, 
' '  almost  as  though  you  were  my — 

"  Please  do  not  say  father." 

"Oh  no." 

"  Brother,  then  ?" 

"Hardly  that." 

"Uncle?" 

"Perhaps;  I  never  had  an  uncle.  But,  after  all,  it  is 
more  like —  Here  she  stopped  again. 

"  Guardian  jj'  suggested  Dexter;  "they  are  always  re 
markable  persons,  at  least  in  books.  Never  mind  the 
name,  Anne;  I  am  content  to  be  simply  your  friend." 

During  the  evening  he  made  one  allusion  to  the  forbid 
den  subject.  "You  asked  me  to  tell  you  nothing  re 
garding  the  people  who  were  at  Caryl's,  but  perhaps  the 
prohibition  was  not  eternal.  I  spent  an  hour  with  Mrs. 
Heathcote  this  afternoon  (never  fear;  I  kept  your  secret). 
Would  you  not  like  to  hear  something  of  her  ?" 

Anne's  face  changed,  but  she  did  not  swerve.  "No; 
tell  me  nothing, "  she  answered.  And  he  obeyed  her  wish . 
In  a  short  time  he  took  leave,  and  returned  to  the  city. 
During  the  remainder  of  the  winter  she  did  not  see  him 
again. 


ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  The  fierce  old  fires  of  primitive  ages  are  not  dead  yet,  although  we 
pretend  they  are.  Every  now  and  then  each  man  of  us  is  confronted 
by  a  gleam  of  the  old  wild  light  deep  down  in  his  own  startled  heart." 

IN  the  middle  of  wild,  snowy  March  there  came  a 
strange  week  of  beautiful  days.  On  the  Sunday  of  this 
week  Anne  was  in  her  place  in  the  choir,  as  usual,  some 
time  before  the  service  began. 

It  was  a  compromise  choir.  The  dispute  between  the 
ideas  of  the  rector  and  those  of  the  congregation  had  been 
ended  by  bringing  the  organ  forward  to  the  corner  near 
the  chancel,  and  placing  in  front  of  it  the  singers'  seats, 
ornamented  with  the  proper  devices:  so  much  was  done 
for  the  rector.  To  balance  this,  and  in  deference  to  the 
congregation,  the  old  quartette  of  voices  was  retained,  and 
placed  in  these  seats,  which,  plainly  intended  for  ten  or 
twelve  surpliced  choristers,  were  all  too  long  and  broad 
for  the  four  persons  who  alone  occupied  them.  The 
singers  sat  in  one,  and  kept  their  music-books  in  the 
other,  and  objecting  to  the  open  publicity  of  their  position 
facing  the  congregation,  they  had  demanded,  and  at  last 
succeeded  in  obtaining  (to  the  despair  of  the  rector),  red 
curtains,  which,  hanging  from  the  high  railing  above, 
modestly  concealed  them  when  they  were  seated,  and 
converted  that  corner  of  the  church  into  something  be 
tween  a  booth  in  a  fair  and  a  circus  tent. 

Before  the  service  began,  while  the  people  were  coming 
in,  the  contralto  pushed  aside  a  corner  of  the  curtain  as 
usual,  and  peeped  out.  She  then  reported  to  Anne  in  a 
whisper  the  course  of  events,  as  follows,  Anne  not  caring 
to  hear,  but  quiescent : 

"Loads  of  people  to-day.  Wonder  why?  Oh  yes,  I 
remember  now;  the  apostolic  bishop's  going  to  be  here, 
and  preach  about  the  Indians.  Don't  you  love  that  man  ? 
I  do ;  and  I  wish  I  was  an  Indian  myself.  We'll  have 


ANNE.  429 

all  the  curtains  put  back  for  the  sermon.  More  people 
coming.  I  declare  it's  quite  exciting.  And  I  forgot  gum- 
drops  on  this  day  of  all  others,  and  shall  probably  be 
hoarse  as  a  crow,  and  spoil  the  duet !  I  hope  you  won't 
be  raging.  Oh,  do  look !  Here's  such  a  swell !  A  lady ; 
Paris  clothes  from  head  to  foot.  And  she's  going  to  sit 
up  here  near  us  too.  Take  a  look  ?"  But  Anne  declined, 
and  the  reporter  went  on.  "She  has  the  lightest  hair 
I  ever  saw.  1  wonder  if  it's  bleached  ?  And  she's  as 
slender  as  a  paper-cutter."  (The  contralto  was  stout.) 
' '  But  I  can't  deny  that  she's  handsome,  and  her  clothes 
are  stunning.  They're  right  close  to  us  now,  and  the 
man's  awfully  handsome  too,  come  to  look  at  him — her 
husband,  I  suppose.  A  pair  of  brown  eyes  and  such' 
heavy  eyebrows !  They — 

But  the  soprano  was  curious  at  last,  apparently,  and 
the  contralto  good-naturedly  gave  up  her  look-out  corner. 
Yes,  there  they  were,  Helen  and  Ward  Heathcote,  Mrs. 
Heathcote  and  her  husband,  Captain  Heathcote  and  his 
wife.  Very  near  her,  and  unconscious  of  her  presence. 
Hungrily,  and  for  one  long  moment,  she  could  not  help 
looking  at  them.  As  the  light-tongued  girl  had  said, 
Helen  looked  very  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
Anne  thought.  She  was  clad  in  black  velvet  from  head 
to  foot,  and  as  the  day  was  unexpectedly  warm,  she  had 
thrown  aside  her  heavy  mantle  edged  with  fur,  and  her 
slender  form  was  visible,  outlined  in  the  clinging  fabric. 
Under  the  small  black  velvet  bonnet  with  its  single  plume 
her  hair,  in  all  its  fine  abundance,  shone  resplendent, 
contrasting  with  the  velvet's  richness.  One  little  deli 
cately  gloved  hand  held  a  prayer-book,  and  with  the  oth 
er,  as  Anne  looked,  she  motioned  to  her  husband.  He 
drew  nearer,  and  she  spoke.  In  answer  he  sought  in  his 
pockets,  and  drew  forth  a  fan.  She  extended  her  hand 
as  if  to  take  it,  but  he  opened  it  himself,  and  began  to  fan 
her  quietly.  The  heat  in  the  church  was  oppressive; 
his  wife  was  delicate;  what  more  natural  than  that  he 
should  do  this  ?  Yet  the  gazer  felt  herself  acutely  mis 
erable.  She  knew  Helen  so  w^ell  also  that  although  to 
the  rest  of  the  congregation  the  fair  face  preserved  un- 


430  ANNE. 

changed  its  proud  immobility,  Anne's  eyes  could  read 
at  once  the  wife's  happiness  in  her  husband's  attention. 

She  drew  back.  "I  can  not  sing  to-day, "she  said, 
hurriedly;  "I  am  not  well.  Will  you  please  make  my 
excuses  to  the  others?"  As  she  spoke  she  drew  on  her 
gloves.  (She  had  a  fancy  that  she  could  not  sing  with 
her  hands  gloved.) 

"Why,  what  in  the  world — '  began  the  contralto. 
' '  But  you  do  look  frightfully  pale.  Are  you  going  to 
faint  ?  Let  me  go  with  you." 

"  I  shall  not  faint,  but  I  must  get  to  the  open  air  as  soon 
as  possible.  Please  stay  and  tell  the  others ;  perhaps  Miss 
Freeborn  will  sing  in  my  place." 

Having  succeeded  in  saying  this,  her  white  cheeks  and 
trembling  hands  witnesses  for  her,  she  went  out  through 
the  little  choir  door,  which  was  concealed  by  the  curtain, 
and  in  another  moment  was  in  the  street.  The  organist, 
hidden  in  his  oaken,  cell,  looked  after  her  in  surprise. 
When  the  basso  came  in,  with  a  flower  in  his  mouth,  he 
took  the  flower  out,  and  grew  severely  thoughtful  over  the 
exigencies  of  the  situation.  After  a  few  minutes  of  hur 
ried  discussion,  the  basso,  who  was  also  the  leader,  came 
forth  from  the  circus  tent  and  made  a  majestic  progress 
to  the  rector's  pew,  where  sat  the  lily-like  Miss  Freeborn, 
the  rector's  daughter;  and  then,  after  another  consulta 
tion,  she  rose,  and  the  two  made  a  second  majestic  pro 
gress  back  to  the  circus  tent,  the  congregation  mean 
while  looking  on  with  much  interest.  When  the  tenor 
came,  a  rather  dissipated  youth  who  had  been  up  late  the 
night  before,  he  was  appalled  by  the  presence  of  the  lily- 
like  Miss  Freeborn,  and  did  not  sing  as  well  as  usual, 
Miss  Freeborn,  although  lily-like,  keeping  him  sternly  to 
his  notes,  and  not  allowing  him  any  of  those  lingering  lit 
tle  descents  after  the  other  singers  have  finished,  upon 
which  he,  like  many  tenors,  relied  for  his  principal  effects. 

Meanwhile  Anne  was  walking  rapidly  down  the  street ; 
a  mile  soon  lay  between  her  and  the  church,  yet  still  she 
hastened  onward.  She  was  in  a  fever,  yet  a  chill  as  well. 
Now  she  was  warm  with  joy,  now  cold  with  grief.  She 
had  seen  him.  Her  eyes  had  rested  upon  his  face  at  last, 


ANNE.  431 

and  he  was  safe,  lie  was  well  and  strong  again.  Was 
not  this  joy  enough  ? 

And  yet  he  was  with  Helen.     And  Helen  loved  him. 

She  had  asked  him  to  go  back  to  Helen.  He  had  gone 
back.  She  had  asked  him  to  do  his  part  in  life  bravely. 
And  he  was  doing  it.  Was  not  this  what  she  wished  ? 

And  yet — was  it  so  hard  to  go  back — to  go  back  to  beau 
tiful  Helen  who  loved  him  so  deeply  ?  Did  his  part  in 
life  require  bravery  ?  Did  he  look  as  though  it  was  a 
sacrifice,  a  hardship  ?  And  here  she  tried  to  recall  how  in 
truth  he  had  looked — how,  to  the  eyes  of  a  stranger.  He 
was  strong  again  and  vigorous;  but  beyond  that  she 
could  think  only  of  how  he  looked  to  her — the  face  she 
knew  so  well,  the  profile,  the  short  crisp  hair,  the  heavy 
eyebrows  and  brown  eyes.  He  was  in  citizen's  dress; 
only  the  bronzed  skin  and  erect  bearing  betrayed  the  sol 
dier.  How  he  would  have  looked  to  a  stranger  she  could 
not  tell ;  she  only  knew,  she  only  felt,  how  he  looked  to 
her.  "He  is  at  home  on  furlough,"  she  thought,  with 
gladness,  realizing  the  great  joy  it  was  that  he  should  be 
safe  when  so  many  had  been  taken.  And  then,  in  her 
memory,  blotting  out  all  gladness,  rose  again  the  picture 
of  the  two  figures,  side  by  side,  and  she  hurried  onward, 
she  knew  not  whither.  It  was  jealousy,  plain,  simple, 
unconquerable  jealousy,  which  was  consuming  her ;  jea 
lousy,  terrible  passion  which  the  most  refined  and  intel 
lectual  share  with  the  poor  Hottentots,  from  which  the 
Christian  can  not  escape  any  more  than  the  pagan ;  jea 
lousy,  horrible  companion  of  love,  its  guardian  and  tor 
mentor.  God  help  the  jealous !  for  they  suff er  the  acutest 
tortures  the  human  mind  can  feel.  And  Anne  was  jea 
lous. 

If  she  had  not  admired  Helen  so  deeply,  and  loved  her 
(save  for  this  one  barrier)  so  sincerely,  she  would  not 
have  suffered  as  she  was  suffering.  But  to  her  Helen 
had  always  been  the  fairest  woman  on  earth,  and  even 
now  this  feeling  could  not  be  changed.  All  Helen's 
words  came  back  to  her,  every  syllable  of  her  clear,  quiet 
ly  but  intensely  uttered  avowal ;  and  this  man,  whom  she 
had  loved  so  deeply,  was  now  her  husband. 


432  ANNE. 

It  was  nothing  new.  Why  should  she  feel  it,  think  of 
it,  in  this  way  ?  But  she  Avas  no  longer  capable  of  think 
ing  or  feeling  reasonably.  Of  course  he  loved  her.  In 
his  mind  she,  Anne,  was  probably  but  a  far-off  remem 
brance,  even  if  a  remembrance  at  all.  Their  meeting  in 
West  Virginia  had  been  a  chance  encounter ;  its  impulses, 
therefore,  had  been  chance  impulses,  its  words  chance 
words,  meaning  nothing,  already  forgotten.  She,  Anne, 
had  taken  them  as  great,  and  serious,  and  sincere;  and 
she,  Anne,  had  been  a  fool.  Her  life  had  been  built  upon 
this  idea.  It  was  a  foundation  of  sand. 

She  walked  on,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing. 
Where  were  now  the  resignation  and  self-sacrifice,,  the 
crowned  patience  and  noble  fortitude  ?  Ah,  yes,  but  re 
signation  and  fortitude  were  one  thing  when  she  had 
thought  that  he  required  them  also,  another  when  they 
were  replaced  in  his  life  by  happiness  and  content.  It  is 
easy  to  be  self-sacrificing  when  the  one  we  love  suffers  in 
companionship  with  us,  and  there  is  no  rival.  But  when 
there  is  a  rival,  self-sacrifice  goes  to  the  winds.  "He 
never  loved  me,"  was  the  burning  cry  of  her  heart.  "1 
have  been  a  fool — a  poor  self-absorbed,  blinded  fool.  If 
he  thinks  of  me  at  all,  it  is  with  a  smile  over  my  simple 
credulity." 

Through  miles  of  streets  she  wandered,  and  at  last 
found  herself  again  in  the  quarter  where  the  church  stood. 
A  sudden  desire  seized  her  to  look  at  him,  at  them,  again. 
If  the  service  had  been  long,  she  would  be  in  time  to  see 
their  carriage  pass.  She  turned,  and  hastened  toward 
the  church,  as  anxious  now  to  reach  it  as  she  had  been  be 
fore  to  leave  it  far  behind.  Now  she  could  see  the  corner 
and  the  porch.  No,  service  was  not  ended  ;  carriages 
were  waiting  without.  She  was  in  time.  But  as  she 
drew  near,  figures  began  to  appear,  coming  from  the 
porch,  and  she  took  refuge  under  the  steps  of  a  house 
opposite,  her  figure  hidden  in  the  shadow. 

The  congregation  slowly  made  its  dignified  way  into 
the  street.  St.  Lucien's  had  seldom  held  so  large  a 
throng  of  worshippers.  The  little  sexton  hardly  knew, 
in  his  excitement,  where  he  was,  or  what  his  duty,  on  such 


"ANNE,  STILL  AS  A  STATUE." 


ANNE.  433 

a  momentous  occasion.  At  length  they  appeared,  the 
last  of  all ;  only  one  carriage  was  left,  and  that  was  their 
own.  Slowly,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  the  slen 
der  fair-haired  woman  came  forth  ;  and  Anne,  still  as  a 
statue,  watched  with  fixed,  burning  eyes  while  he  threw 
the  velvet  cloak  round  her  as  they  reached  the  open  air, 
and  fastened  the  clasp.  Chance  favored  the  gazer.  Hel 
en  had  left  her  prayer-book  behind  in  the  pew,  and  while 
the  sexton  went  back  to  look  for  it,  husband  and  wife  stood 
waiting  on  the  steps  in  the  sunshine.  Yes,  Heathcote  had 
regained  all  his  old  vigor,  but  his  expression  was  changed. 
He  was  graver;  in  repose  his  face  was  stern. 

It  seemed  as  if  Helen  felt  the  fixed  although  unseen 
gaze,  for  she  shivered  slightly,  said  something,  and  they 
began  to  go  down  the  steps,  the  wife  supported  by  her 
husband's  arm  as  though  she  needed  the  assistance.  The 
footman  held  open  the  carriage  door,  but  Helen  paused. 
Anne  could  see  her  slender  foot,  in  its  little  winter  boot, 
put  out,  and  then  withdrawn,  as  though  she  felt  herself 
unable  to  take  the  step.  Then  her  husband  lifted  her  in 
his  arms  and  placed  her  in  the  carriage  himself,  took  his 
place  beside  her,  and  the  man  closed  the  door.  In  an 
other  minute  the  sexton  had  brought  the  prayer-book, 
and  the  carriage  rolled  away.  Anne  came  out  from  her 
hiding-place.  The  vision  was  gone. 

Again  she  walked  at  random  through  the  streets,  un 
heeding  where  she  was.  She  knew  that  she  had  broken 
her  compact  with  herself — broken  it  utterly.  Of  what 
avail  now  the  long  months  during  which  she  had  not  al 
lowed  herself  to  enter  the  street  or  the  neighborhood 
where  Helen  lived  ?  Of  what  avail  that  she  had  not  al 
lowed  herself  to  listen  to  one  word  concerning  them  when 
Mr.  Dexter  stood  ready  to  tell  all  ?  She  had  looked  at 
them — looked  at  them  voluntarily  and  long;  had  gone 
back  to  the  church  door  to  look  at  them,  to  look  again 
at  the  face  for  a  sight  of  which  her  whole  heart  hungered. 

She  had  broken  her  vow.  In  addition,  the  mist  over 
her  blind  eyes  was  dissolved.  He  had  never  loved  her; 
it  had  been  but  a  passing  fancy.  It  was  best  so.  Yet,  oh, 
how  easy  all  the  past  now  seemed,  in  spite  of  its  loneliness, 

28 


434  ANNE. 

toil,  and  care !  For  then  she  had  believed  that  she  was 
loved.  She  began  to  realize  that  until  this  moment  she 
had  never  really  given  up  her  own  will  at  all,  but  had 
held  on  through  all  to  this  inward  belief,  which  had  made 
her  lonely  life  warm  with  its  hidden  secret  light.  She 
had  thought  herself  noble,  and  she  had  been  but  selfish ; 
she  had  thought  herself  self-controlled,  and  she  had  been 
following  her  own  will ;  she  had  thought  herself  humble, 
and  here  she  was,  maddened  by  humiliated  jealous  pride. 
At  last,  worn  out  with  weariness,  she  went  homeward 
to  the  half-house  as  twilight  fell.  In  the  morning  the 
ground  was  white  with  snow  again,  and  the  tumultuous 
winds  of  March  were  careering  through  the  sky,  whip 
ping  the  sleet  and  hail  before  them  as  they  flew  along ; 
the  strange  halcyon  sunshine  was  gone,  and  a  second  win 
ter  upon  them.  And  Anne  felt  that  a  winter  such  as  she 
had  never  known  before  was  in  her  heart  also. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  0  eloquent  and  mightie  Death !  thou  hast  drawn  together  all  the 
farre-stretched  greatnesse,  all  the  pride,  crueltie,  and  ambition  of  men, 
and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words,  Hie  jacet  1" — 
SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

A  MONTH  passed.  Anne  saw  nothing  more,  heard  no 
thing  more,  but  toiled  on  in  her  daily  round.  She 
taught  and  sang.  She  answered  Miss  Lois's  letters  and 
those  of  Pere  Michaux.  There  was  no  longer  any  dan 
ger  in  writing  to  Weston,  and  she  smiled  sadly  as  she 
thought  of  the  blind,  self-important  days  when  she  had 
believed  otherwise.  She  now  wrote  to  her  friends  there, 
and  letters  came  in  return.  Mrs.  Barstow's  pages  were 
filled  with  accounts  of  hospital  work,  for  Donelson  had 
been  followed  by  the  great  blood-shedding  of  Shiloh,  and 
the  West  was  dotted  with  battle-fields. 

She  had  allowed  herself  no  newspapers,  lest  she  should 
come  upon  his  name.  But  now  she  ordered  one,  and 
read  it  daily.  What  was  it  to  her  even  if  she  should 
come  upon  his  name  ?  She  must  learn  to  bear  it,  so  long 


ANNE.  435 

as  they  trod  the  same  earth.  And  one  day  she  did  come 
upon  it;  but  it  was  merely  the  two-line  announcement 
that  he  had  returned  to  the  front. 

The  great  city  had  grown  used  to  the  war.  There  were 
few  signs  in  its  busy  streets  that  a  pall  hung  over  the 
borders  of  the  South.  The  music  teacher  on  her  rounds 
saw  nothing  save  now  and  then  the  ranks  of  a  regiment 
passing  through  011  its  way  to  a  train.  Traffic  went  on 
unchanged;  pleasure  was  rampant  as  ever.  The  shrill 
voice  of  the  newsboy  calling  the  details  of  the  last  battle 
was  often  the  only  reminder  of  the  dread  reality.  May 
moved  onward.  The  Sclieffels  began  to  make  those  little 
excursions  into  the  country  so  dear  to  the  German  heart ; 
but  they  could  not  persuade  the  honored  Fraulein  to  ac 
company  them.  For  it  was  not  the  real  country  to  which 
they  went,  but  only  that  suburban  imitation  of  it  which 
thrives  in  the  neighborhood  of  New  York,  and  Anne's 
heart  was  back  on  her  island  in  the  cool  blue  Northern 
straits.  Miss  Lois  was  now  at  home  again,  and  her  letters 
were  like  a  breath  of  life  to  the  homesick  girl.  Little 
Andre  was  better,  and  Pere  Michaux  came  often  to  the 
church-house,  and  seemed  glad  to  be  with  them  again. 
With  them  again !  If  she  could  but  be  with  them  too ! 
— stand  011  the  heights  among  the  beckoning  larches,  walk 
through  the  spicy  aisles  of  the  arbor  vitae,  sit  under  the 
gray  old  pines,  listening  to  the  wash  of  the  cool  blue  wa 
ter  below,  at  rest,  afar,  afar  from  all  this  weariness  and 
sadness  and  pain ! 

During  these  days  Stonewall  Jackson  was  making  one 
of  his  brilliant  campaigns  in  the  Valley,  the  Valley  of 
Virginia,  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Shenandoah.  On 
the  last  morning  in  May,  while  reading  the  Avar  news, 
Anne  found  in  one  corner  a  little  list  of  dead.  And 
there,  in  small  letters,  which  grew  to  great  size,  and  in 
scribed  themselves  on  the  walls  of  the  room,  one  succeed 
ing  the  other  like  a  horrible  dream,  was  the  name,  Ward 
Heathcote.  "  Captain  Ward  Heathcote,  —  —New  York. 
Volunteers."  She  turned  the  sheet;  it  was  repeated  in 
the  latest  news  column,  and  again  in  a  notice  on  the 
local  page.  ' '  Captain  Ward  Heathcote, New  York 


436  ANNE. 

Volunteers,  is  reported  among  the  slain,"  followed  by 
those  brief  items  of  birth,  age,  and  general  history  which 
appall  our  eyes  when  we  first  behold  them  on  the  printed 
page,  and  realize  that  .they  are  now  public  property,  since 
they  belong  only  to  the  dead. 

It  was  early.  She  was  at  home  in  the  half-house. 
She  rose,  put  on  her  bonnet  and  gloves,  walked  to  the 
station,  took  the  first  train  to  the  city,  and  went  to  Helen. 

She  reached  the  house,  and  was  denied  entrance.  Mrs. 
Heathcote  could  see  no  one. 

Was  any  one  with  her  ?     Miss  Teller  ? 

Miss  Teller,  the  man  answered,  was  absent  from  the 
city ;  but  a  telegraphic  dispatch  had  been  sent,  and  she 
was  on  her  way  home.  There  was  no  relative  at  present 
with  Mrs.  Heathcote;  friends  she  was  not  able  to  see. 
And  he  looked  with  some  curiosity  at  this  plainly  dress 
ed  young  person,  who  stood  there  quite  unconscious,  ap 
parently,  of  the  atmosphere  of  his  manner.  And  yet 
Mr.  Simpson  had  a  very  well  regulated  manner,  founded 
upon  the  best  models — a  manner  which  had  never  here 
tofore  failed  in  its  effect.  With  a  preliminary  cough, 
he  began  to  close  the  door. 

"Wait,"  said  this  young  person,  almost  as  though  she 
had  some  authority.  She  drew  forth  a  little  note-book, 
tore  out  a  leaf,  wrote  a  line  upon  it,  and  handed  him 
the  improvised  card.  ' '  Please  take  this  to  Mrs.  Heath 
cote,"  she  said.  "  I  think  she  will  see  me." 

See  her — see  her — when  already  members  of  the  high 
est  circles  of  the  city  had  been  refused !  With  a  slight 
smile  of  superior  scorn,  Simpson  took  the  little  slip,  and 
leaving  the  stranger  on  the  steps,  went  within,  partially 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  But  in  a  few  minutes  he 
hastily  returned,  and  with  him  was  a  sedate  middle-aged 
woman,  whom  he  called  Mrs.  Bagshot,  and  who,  although 
quiet  in  manner,  seemed  decidedly  to  outrank  him. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  if  you  please?"  she  said  def 
erentially,  addressing  Anne.  ' '  Mrs.  Heathcote  would 
like  to  see  you  without  delay."  She  led  the  way  with  a 
quiet  unhurrying  step  up  a  broad  stairway,  and  opened 
a  door.  In  the  darkened  room,  on  a  couch,  a  white  form 


ANNE.  43? 

was  lying.  Bagshot  withdrew,  and  Anne,  crossing  the 
floor,  sank  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  couch. 

"Helen!"  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice;  "oh,  Helen! 
Helen!" 

The  white  figure  did  not  stir,  save  slowly  to  disengage 
one  hand  and  hold  it  out.  But  Anne,  leaning  forward, 
tenderly  lifted  the  slight  form  in  her  arms,  and  held  it 
close  to  her  breast. 

"I  could  not  help  coining,"  she  said.  "  Poor  Helen! 
poor,  poor  Helen!" 

She  smoothed  the  fair  hair  away  from  the  small  face 
that  lay  still  and  white  upon  her  shoulder,  and  at  that 
moment  she  pitied  the  stricken  wife  so  intensely  that  she 
forgot  the  rival,  or  rather  made  herself  one  with  her ;  for 
in  death  there  is  no  rivalry,  only  a  common  grief.  Helen 
did  not  speak,  but  she  moved  closer  to  Anne,  and  Anne, 
holding  her  in  her  arms,  bent  over  her,  soothing  her  with 
loving  words,  as  though  she  had  been  a  little  child. 

The  stranger  remained  with  Mrs.  Heathcote  nearly  two 
hours.  Then  she  went  away,  and  Simpson,  opening  the 
door  for  her,  noticed  that  her  veil  wras  closely  drawn,  so 
that  her  face  was  concealed.  She  went  up  the  street 
to  the  end  of  the  block,  turned  the  corner,  and  disappeared. 
He  was  still  standing  on  the  steps,  taking  a  breath  of 
fresh  air,  his  portly  person  and  solemn  face  expressing, 
according  to  his  idea,  a  dignified  grief  appropriate  to 
the  occasion  and  the  distinction  of  the  family  he  served — 
a  family  wjiose  bereavements  even  were  above  the  level 
of  ordinary  sorrows,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by 
the  appearance  of  a  boy  in  uniform,  bearing  in  his  hand 
an  orange-browTii  envelope.  In  the  possibilities  of  that 
well-knowTii  hue  of  hope  and  dread  he  forgot  for  the  mo 
ment  even  his  occupation  of  arranging  in  his  own  mind 
elegant  formulas  with  which  to  answer  the  inquiries  con 
stantly  made  at  the  door  of  the  bereaved  mansion.  The 
boy  ascended  the  steps ;  Bagshot,  up  stairs,  with  her  hand 
on  the  knob  of  Mrs.  Heathcote's  door,  saw  him,  and 
came  down.  The  dispatch  was  for  her  mistress ;  she  car 
ried  it  to  her.  The  next  instant  a  cry  rang  through  the 
house.  Captain  Heathcote  was  safe. 


438  ANNE. 

The  message  was  as  follows  : 

'  '  To  Mrs.  Ward  Heathcote  : 

'  '  My  name  given  in  list  a  mistake.    Am  here,  wounded, 
but  not  dangerously.     Will  write.  W.  H. 


" 


It  was  sent  from  Harper's  Ferry.  And  two  hours  later, 
Mrs.  Heathcote,  accompanied  by  Bagshot,  was  on  her 
way  to  Harper's  Ferry. 

It  was  a  wild  journey.  If  any  man  had  possessed 
authority  over  Helen,  she  would  never  have  been  allowed 
to  make  it  ;  but  no  man  did  possess  authority.  Mrs. 
Heathcote,  having  money,  courage,  and  a  will  of  steel, 
asked  advice  from  no  one,  did  not  even  wait  for  Miss 
Teller,  but  departed  according  to  a  swift  purpose  of  her 
own,  accompanied  only  by  Bagshot,  who  was,  however, 
an  efficient  person,  self-possessed,  calm,  and  accustomed 
to  travelling.  It  was  uncertain  whether  they  would  Be 
able  to  reach  Harper's  Ferry,  but  this  uncertainty  did 
not  deter  Helen:  she  would  go  as  far  as  she  could.  In 
her  heart  she  was  not  without  hope  that  Mrs.  Heathcote 
could  relax  the  rules  and  military  lines  of  even  the  strict 
est  general  in  the  service.  As  to  personal  fear,  she  had 
none. 

At  Baltimore  she  was  obliged  to  wait  for  an  answer 
to  the  dispatch  she  had  sent  on  starting,  and  the  answer 
was  long  in  coming.  To  pass  away  the  time,  she  order 
ed  a  carriage  and  drove  about  the  city  ;  many  persons  no 
ticed  her,  and  remembered  her  fair,  delicate,  and  impa 
tient  face,  framed  in  its  pale  hair.  At  last  the  answer 
came.  Captain  Heathcote  was  no  longer  at  Harper's 
Ferry;  he  had  been  sent  a  short  distance  northward  to  a 
town  where  there  was  a  better  hospital,  and  Mrs.  Heath 
cote  was  advised  to  go  round  by  the  way  of  Harrisburg, 
a  route  easier  and  safer,  if  not  in  the  end  -more  direct  as 
well. 

She  followed  this  advice,  although  against  her  will. 
She  travelled  northward  to  Harrisburg,  and  then  made  a 
broad  curve,  and  came  southward  again,  within  sight  of 
the  green  hills  later  to  be  brought  into  unexpected  and 


ANNE.  439 

long-enduring  fame — the  hills  around  Gettysburg.  But 
now  the  whole  region  was  fair  with  summer,  smiling  and 
peaceful;  the  farmers  were  at  work,  and  the  grain  was 
growing.  After  some  delays  she  reached  the  little  town, 
with  its  barrack-like,  white-washed  hospital,  where  her 
husband  was  installed  under  treatment  for  a  wound  in 
his  right  arm,  which,  at  first  appearing  serious,  had  now 
begun  to  improve  so  rapidly  that  the  surgeon  in  charge 
decided  that  he  could  soon  travel  northward,  and  receive 
what  further  care  he  needed  among  the  comforts  of  his 
own  home. 

At  the  end  of  five  days,  therefore,  they  started,  attend 
ed  only  by  Bagshot,  that  useful  woman  possessing,  in 
addition  to  her  other  qualifications,  both  skill  and  ex 
perience  as  a  nurse. 

They  started ;  but  the  journey  was  soon  ended.  On 
the  llth  of  June  the  world  of  New  York  was  startled, 
its  upper  circles  hotly  excited,  and  one  obscure  young 
teacher  in  a  little  suburban  home  paralyzed,  by  the  great 
headings  in  the  morning  newspapers.  Mrs.  Heathcote, 
wife  of  Captain  Ward  Heathcote, New  York  Volun 
teers,  while  on  her  way  homeward  with  her  husband, 
who  was  wounded  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  had  been 
found  murdered  in  her  room  in  the  country  inn  at  Tim- 
loesville,  where  they  were  passing  the  night.  And  the 
evidence  pointed  so  strongly  toward  Captain  Heathcote 
that  he  had  been  arrested  upon  suspicion. 

The  city  journals  appended  to  this  brief  dispatch  what 
ever  details  they  knew  regarding  the  personal  history 
of  the  suspected  man  and  his  victim.  Helen's  beauty,  the 
high  position  of  both  in  society,  and  their  large  circle  of 
friends  were  spoken  of;  and  in  one  account  the  wife's 
wealth,  left  by  will  unconditionally  to  her  husband,  was 
significantly  mentioned.  One  of  the  larger  journals, 
with  the  terrible  and  pitiless  impartiality  of  the  great 
city  dailies,  added  that  if  there  had  been  a  plan,  some 
part  of  it  had  signally  failed.  "  A.  man  of  the  ability  of 
Captain  Heathcote  would  never  have  been  caught  other 
wise  in  a  web  of  circumstantial  evidence  so  close  that 
it  convinced  even  the  pastoral  minds  of  the  Timloesville 


440  ANNE. 

officials.  We  do  not  wish,  of  course,  to  prejudge  this 
case;  but  from  the  half -accounts  which  have  reached  us, 
it  looks  as  though  this  blunder,  whatever  it  may  have 
been,  was  but  another  proof  of  the  eternal  verity  of  the 
old  saying,  Murder  will  out." 

It  was  the  journal  containing  this  sentence  which  Anne 
read.  She  had  heard  the  news  of  Heathcote's  safety  a 
few  hours  after  her  visit  to  Helen.  Only  a  few  days  had 
passed,  and  now  her  eyes  were  staring  at  the  horrible 
words  that  Helen  was  dead,  and  that  her  murderer  was 
her  own  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"All  her  bright  hair  streaming  down, 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead, 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  though  she  smiled." 

— TENNYSON. 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  NEW  YORK  "  MARS." 

"THE  following  details  in  relation  to  the  terrible  crime 
with  whose  main  facts  our  readers  are  familiar  will  be 
of  interest  at  the  moment.  They  were  collected  by  our 
special  reporter,  sent  in  person  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy, 
for  the  purpose  of  gathering  reliable  information  concern 
ing  this  case,  which  promises  to  be  one  of  the  causes  cele- 
bres  of  the  country,  not  only  on  account  of  the  high  po 
sition  and  wealth  of  the  parties  concerned,  but  also  011  ac 
count  of  the  close  net  of  purely  circumstantial  evidence 
which  surrounds  the  accused  man . 


is  a  small  village  on  the  border-line  between  Pennsyl 
vania  and  Maryland.  Legally  in  Pennsylvania,  it  pos 
sesses  personally  the  characteristics  of  a  Maryland  village,, 
some  of  its  outlying  fields  being  fairly  over  the  border. 
It  is  credited  with  about  two  thousand  inhabitants  •,  but 


ANNE.  441 

the  present  observer  did  not  see,  during  his  stay,  more 
than  about  one  thousand,  including  women  and  children. 
Timloesville  is  011  a  branch  railway,  which  connects 
with  the  main  line  at  a  junction  about  thirty  miles  dis 
tant.  It  possesses  two  churches  and  a  saw-mill,  and  was 
named  from  a  highly  esteemed  early  settler  (who  may 
perhaps  have  marched  with  our  great  Washington), 
Judge  Jeremiah  Timloe.  The  agricultural  products  of 
the  surrounding  country  are  principally  hay  and  maize 
— wrongly  called  corn.  The  intelligence  and  morality 
of  the  community  are  generally  understood  to  be  of  a  high 
order.  A  low  fever  prevails  here  in  the  spring. 

'•TIMLOE   HOTEL. 

"At  the  southern  edge  of  the  town,  on  the  line  of  the 
railway,  stands  the  Tirnloe  Hotel,  presenting  an  imposing 
fagade  to  the  passengers  on  the  trains  as  they  roll  by.  It 
is  presided  over  in  a  highly  liberal  and  gentlemanly  man 
ner  by  Mr.  Casper  Graub;  it  is,  in  fact,  to  the  genial 
courtesy  of  '  mine  host'  that  much  of  this  information  is 
due,  and  we  take  this  occasion  also  to  state  that  during 
all  the  confusion  and  excitement  necessarily  accruing  to 
his  house  during  the  present  week,  the  high  standard  of 
Mr.  Graub's  table  has  never  once  been  relaxed. 

"MR,  GRAUB'S  STORY. 

"An  army  officer,  with  his  right  arm  in  a  sling,  arrived 
at  the  Timloe  Hotel,  accompanied  by  his  wife,  and  a  maid 
or  nurse  named  Bagshot,  on  the  evening  of  June  10,  at 
six  o'clock  precisely.  The  officer  registered  the  names 
as  follows :  4  Ward  Heathcote,  Mrs.  Heathcote  and  maid, 
New  York.'  He  wrote  the  names  with  his  left  hand.  A 
room  was  assigned  to  them  in  the  front  part  of  the  house, 
but  upon  the  lady's  objecting  to  the  proximity  of  the 
trains  (generally  considered,  however,  by  the  majority  of 
Mr.  Graub's  guests,  an  enjoyable  variety),  another  apart 
ment  in  a  wing  wras  given  to  them,  with  windows  open 
ing  upon  the  garden.  The  wing  is  shaped  like  an  L. 
The  maid,  Bagshot,  had  a  room  in  the  bend  of  the  L,  she 
too  having  objected,  although  later,  to  the  room  first  asr 


442  ANNE. 

signed  to  her.  At  half  past  six  o'clock  they  had  supper; 
the  lady  then  retired  to  her  room,  but  the  husband  went 
out,  as  he  said,  to  stroll  about  the  town.  At  half  past 
eight  he  returned.  At  nine,  Bagshot,  having  been  dis 
missed  for  the  night,  went  to  her  own  room ;  when  she 
left,  Captain  Heathcote  was  reading  a  newspaper,  and  his 
wife  was  writing.  It  has  since  been  ascertained  that  this 
newspaper  was  the  Baltimore  Chronos  of  the  9th  inst. 
At  ten  o'clock  exactly  Captain  Heathcote  came  down 
stairs  a  second  time,  passed  through  the  office,  and  stopped 
to  light  a  cigar.  Mr.  Graub  noticed  that  he  was  able  to 
use  his  left  hand  quite  cleverly,  and  asked  him  whether 
he  was  naturally  left-handed ;  Captain  Heathcote  answer 
ed  that  he  was  not,  but  had  learned  the  use  only  since 
his  right  arm  had  been  disabled.  Mr.  Graub,  seeing  him 
go  toward  the  door,  thought  that  it  was  somewhat  singu 
lar  that  he  should  wish  to  take  a  second  walk,  and  casu 
ally  remarked  upon  the  warmth  of  the  evening.  Cap 
tain  Heathcote  replied  that  it  was  for  that  very  reason  he 
was  going  out ;  he  could  not  breathe  in  the  house ;  and 
he  added  something  not  very  complimentary  to  the  air 
(generally  considered  unusually  salubrious)  of  Timloes- 
ville.  Mr.  Graub  noticed  that  he  walked  up  and  down 
on  the  piazza  once  or  twice,  as  if  he  wished  to  show  him 
self  plainly  to  the  persons  who  were  sitting  there.  He 
then  strolled  away,  going  toward  the  main  street. 

* '  THE   OUTSIDE   STAIRWAY. 

"  As  before  mentioned,  the  second  room  given  to  Mrs. 
Heathcote  was  in  a  wing.  This  wing  is  not  much  used ; 
in  fact,  at  the  time,  save  this  party  of  three,  it  had  no 
occupants.  It  is  in  the  old  part  of  the  house.  A  piazza 
or  gallery  runs  across  a  portion  of  the  second  story,  to 
which  access  is  had  from  the  garden  by  a  flight  of  wood 
en  steps,  or  rather  an  outside  stairway.  This  stairway  is 
old  and  sagged ;  in  places  the  railing  is  gone.  It  is  pro 
bable  that  Mrs.  Heathcote  did  not  even  see  it.  But  Cap 
tain  Heathcote  might  have  noticed  it,  and  probably  did 
notice  it,  from  the  next  street,  through  which  he  passed 
when  he  took  his  first  walk  before  dark. 


ANNE.  443 

"MRS.  BAGSHOT'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  As  we  have  seen,  Captain  Heathcote  left  the  hotel  os 
tentatiously  by  the  front  entrance  at  ten  o'clock.  At 
eleven,  Mrs.  Bagshot,  who  happened  to  be  looking  from 
her  window  in  the  bend  of  the  L,  distinctly  saw  him  (her 
candle  being  out)  stealing  up  by  the  outside  stairway 
in  the  only  minute  of  moonlight  there  was  during  the 
entire  evening,  the  clouds  having  suddenly  and  strangely 
parted,  as  if  for  that  very  purpose.  She  saw  him  enter 
his  wife's  room  through  one  of  the  long  windows  which 
opened  to  the  floor.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she 
saw  him  come  forth  again,  close  the  blind  behind  him, 
and  begin  to  descend  the  stairway.  As  there  was  no 
longer  any  moonlight,  she  could  only  distinguish  him  by 
the  light  that  shone  from  the  room;  but  in  that  short 
space  of  time,  while  he  was  closing  the  blind,  she  re 
cognized  him  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt. 

"THE  NIGHT  PORTER'S  TALE. 

"A  little  before  midnight,  all  the  hotel  entrances  being 
closed  save  the  main  door,  Captain  Heathcote  returned. 
As  he  passed  through  the  office,  the  night  porter  noticed 
that  he  looked  pale,  and  that  his  clothes  were  disordered ; 
his  shirt  cuffs  especially  were  wet  and  creased,  as  though 
they  had  been  dipped  in  water.  He  went  up  stairs  to  his 
room,  but  soon  came  down  again.  He  had  knocked,  but 
could  not  awaken  his  wife.  Would  the  porter  be  able 
to  open  the  door  by  turning  back  the  key  ?  His  wife  was 
an  invalid ;  he  feared  she  had  fainted. 

"THE  TRAGEDY. 

"The  night  porter— a  most  respectable  person  of  Irish 
extraction,  named  Dennis  Haggerty — came  up  and  open 
ed  the  door.  The  lamp  was  burning  Avithin ;  the  blinds 
of  the  window  were  closed.  On  the  bed,  stabbed  to  the 
heart,  apparently  while  she  lay  asleep,  was  the  body  of 
the  wife. 


444  ANNE. 

"DUMB  WITNESSES. 

"  Eed  marks  were  found  on  the  shutter,  which  are  pro 
nounced  by  experts  to  be  the  partial  print  of  a  left  hand. 
On  the  white  cloth  which  covered  the  bureau  is  a  slight 
impression  of  finger-tips,  also  belonging  to  a  left  hand. 
These  marks  are  too  imperfect  to  be  relied  upon  in  them 
selves,  save  that  they  establish  the  fact  that  the  hand 
which  touched  the  cloth  and  closed  the  shutter  was  a  left 
hand. 

"AN  IMPROBABLE   STORY. 

"Captain  Heathcote  asserts  that  he  left  the  hotel  at  ten, 
as  testified,  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
That  he  returned  through  the  garden  at  eleven,  and  see 
ing  by  the  bright  light  that  his  wife  was  still  awake, 
he  went  up  by  the  outside  stairway,  which  he  had  pre 
viously  noted,  entered  the  room  through  the  long  win 
dow  to  tell  her  that  he  was  going  to  take  a  bath  in  the 
river,  and  to  get  towels.  He  remained  a  few  minutes,  put 
two  towels  in  his  pocket,  and  came  out,  going  down  the 
same  stairway,  across  the  garden,  and  along  the  main  road 
to  the  river.  (A  track,  however,  has  been  found  to  the 
river  through  the  large  meadow  behind  the  house.)  At 
the  bend  where  road  and  river  meet,  he  undressed  himself 
and  took  a  bath.  The  disorder  in  his  clothing  and  his 
wet  cuifs  came  from  his  own  awkwardness,  as  he  has 
but  partial  use  of  his  right  arm.  He  then  returned  by  the 
road  as  he  had  come,  but  he  forgot  the  toivels.  Probably 
they  would  be  found  on  the  bank  where  he  left  them. 

' '  THE  TOWEL. 

"No  towels  were  found  at  the  point  named.  But  at 
the  end  of  the  track  through  the  grass  meadow,  among 
the  reeds  on  the  shore,  a  towel  was  found,  and  identified 
as  one  belonging  to  the  hotel.  This  towel  is  stained  with 
blood. 

"THE  THEORY. 

"The  theory  at  Timloesville  is  that  Heathcote  had 
no  idea  that  he  would  be  seen  when  he  stole  up  that  out 
side  stairway.  He  knew  that  the  entire  wing  was  unoc- 


ANNE.  445 

cupied :  a  servant  has  testified  that  she  told  him  it  was ; 
and  he  thought,  too,  that  the  maid  Bagshot  had  a  room  in 
front,  not  commanding  the  garden.  Bagshot  says  that 
the  room  was  changed  without  his  knowledge,  while  he 
was  absent  on  his  first  walk.  He  supposed,  then,  that  he 
would  not  be  seen.  He  evidently  took  Mrs.  Heathcote's 
diamond  rings,  purse,  and  watch  (they  are  all  missing)  in 
order  to  turn  public  opinion  toward  the  idea  that  the 
murder  was  for  the  sake  of  robbery.  He  says  that  a  man 
passed  him  while  he  was  bathing,  and  spoke  to  him; 
proof  of  this  would  establish  something  toward  the  truth 
of  his  story.  But,  strangely  enough,  this  man  can  not  be 
found.  Yet  Timloesville  and  its  neighborhood  are  by 
no  means  so  crowded  with  inhabitants  that  the  search 
should  be  a  difficult  one. 

' '  It  may  be  regarded  as  a  direct  misfortune  in  the  cause 
of  justice  that  the  accused  heard  any  of  Bagshot's  testi 
mony  against  him  before  he  was  called  upon  to  give  his 
own  account  of  the  events  of  the  evening.  And  yet  his 
confused,  contradictory  story  is  another  proof  of  the  in 
capacity  which  the  most  cunning  murderers  often  display 
when  overtaken  by  suspicion ;  they  seem  to  lose  all  pow 
er  to  protect  themselves.  If  Captain  Heathcote  had  de 
nied  Bagshofs  testimony  in  toto,  had  denied  having  as 
cended  the  outside  stairway  at  all,  his  chances  would 
have  been  much  brighter,  for  people  might  have  believed 
that  the  maid  was  mistaken.  But  he  acknowledges  the 
stairway,  and  then  denies  the  rest. 

"HIS  MOTIVE. 

"  But  how  can  poor  finite  man  detect  so  obscure  a  thing 
as  motive  ?  He  must  hide  his  face  and  acknowledge  his 
feebleness  when  he  stands  before  this  inscrutable,  heavy- 
browed,  silent  Fate.  In  this  case,  two  solutions  are  offer 
ed.  One,  that  the  wife's  large  fortune  was  left  by  will 
unconditionally  to  her  husband;  the  other,  that  Mrs. 
Bagshot  will  testify  that  there  was  jealousy  and  ill  feel 
ing  between  these  two,  linked  together  by  God's  holy  ordi 
nance,  and  that  this  ill  feeling  was  connected  with  a 
third  person,  and  that  person — a  woman." 


446  ANNE. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  NEW  YORK  "ZEUS." 
"Mrs.  Heathcote  was  apparently  murdered  while 
asleep.  When  found,  her  face  wore  a  natural  and  sweet 
expression,  as  though  she  had  passed  from  slumber  into 
death  without  even  a  sigh.  The  maid  testifies  that  her 
mistress  always  removed  her  rings  at  night;  it  is  pro 
bable,  therefore,  that  they,  together  with  her  purse  and 
watch,  were  on  the  bureau  where  the  marks  of  the  finger 
tips  were  found. 

"~V^e  refrain  at  present  from  comment  upon  the  close 
circumstantial  evidence  which  surrounds  this  case;  the 
strong  hand  of  the  law  will  take  hold  of  it  at  the  proper 
time,  and  sift  it  thoroughly.  Meanwhile  the  attitude  of  all 
right-minded  persons  should  be  calm  and  impartial,  and 
the  accused  man  should  be  held  innocent  until  he  is 
proven  guilty.  Trial  by  newspaper  is  one  of  the  notable 
evils  of  our  modern  American  system,  and  should  be 
systematically  discountenanced  and  discouraged ;  when  a 
human  life  is  trembling  in  the  balance,  the  sensation- 
monger  should  be  silenced,  and  his  evil  wares  sternly  re 
jected." 

This  negative  impartiality  was  the  nearest  approach  to 
friendliness  which  the  accused  man  received  from  the 
combined  newspaper  columns  of  New  York,  Baltimore, 
and  Washington. 

The  body  of  poor  Helen  was  brought  home,  and  Miss 
Teller  herself  arrayed  her  darling  for  her  long  repose. 
Friends  thronged  to  see  her  as  she  lay  in  her  luxurious 
drawing-room ;  flowers  were  placed  everywhere  as  though 
for  a  bridal — the  bridal  of  death.  Her  figure  was  visible 
from  head  to  foot;  she  seemed  asleep.  Her  still  face 
wore  a  gentle  expression  of  rest  and  peace ;  her  small 
hands  were  crossed  upon  her  breast;  her  unbound  hair 
fell  in  waves  behind  her  shoulders,  a  few  strands  lying  on 
the  white  skirt  far  below  the  slender  waist,  almost  to  the 
feet.  The  long  lashes  lay  upon  the  oval  cheek ;  no  one 
would  ever  see  those  bright  brown  eyes  again,  and  find 
fault  with  them  because  they  were  too  narrow.  The  lithe 


ANNE.  447 

form  was  motionless;  no  one  would  ever  again  watch  it 
move  onward  with  its  peculiar  swaying  grace,  and  find 
fault  with  it  because  it  was  too  slender.  Those  who  had 
not  been  willing  to  grant  her  beauty  in  life,  gazed  at  her 
now  with  tear-dimmed  eyes,  and  willingly  gave  all  the 
meed  of  praise  they  had  withheld  before.  Those  who  had 
not  loved  her  while  she  lived,  forgot  all,  and  burst  into 
tears  when  they  saw  her  now,  the  delicately  featured 
face  once  so  proud  and  imperious,  quiet  forever,  grown 
strangely  youthful  too,  like  the  face  of  a  young  girl. 

Miss  Teller  sat  beside  her  darling ;  to  all  she  made  the 
same  set  speech :  ' '  Dear  Ward,  her  husband,  the  one  who 
loved  her  best,  can  not  be  here.  I  am  staying  with  her, 
therefore,  until  she  is  taken  from  us ;  then  I  shall  go  to 
him,  as  she  would  have  wished."  For  Miss  Teller  be 
lieved  110  word  of  the  stories  with  which  the  newspapers 
teemed.  Indignation  and  strong  affection  supplied  the 
place  of  whatever  strength  had  been  lacking  in  her  char 
acter,  and  never  before  in  her  life  had  she  appeared  as  re 
solute  and  clear-minded  as  now. 

During  the  funeral  services,  Isabel  Varce  sat  beside  Miss 
Teller,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Rachel  Ban- 
nert  was  next  to  Isabel.  She  had  looked  once  at  Helen, 
only  once,  and  her  dark  face  had  quivered  spasmodical 
ly;  then  she  also  took  her  seat  beside  the  fair,  still  form, 
and  bowed  her  head.  All  Helen's  companions  were  clad 
in  mourning  garb ;  the  tragedy  of  this  death  had  invested 
it  with  a  deeper  sadness  than  belonged  to  the  passing 
away  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature  of  even  closer- 
friends.  The  old-fashioned  mansion  was  full  to  over 
flowing;  in  the  halls  and  doorway,  on  the  front  steps, 
and  even  on  the  pavement  outside,  men  were  standing, 
bare-headed  and  silent,  many  distinguished  faces  being 
among  them ;  society  men  also,  who  in  general  avoided 
funerals  as  unpleasant  and  grewsome  ceremonials. 
These  had  been  Helen's  companions  and  friends;  they 
had  all  liked  and  admired  her,  and  as  she  was  borne  past 
them,  covered  with  heliotrope,  there  was  not  one  whose 
eyes  did  not  grow  stern  in  thinking  of  the  dastard  hand 
that  did  the  cruel  deed. 


448  ANNE. 

That  night,  when  darkness  fell,  many  hearts  remem* 
bered  her,  lying  alone  in  the  far-off  cemetery,  the  ceme 
tery  we  call  Greenwood,  although  no  wood  made  by  Na 
ture's  hand  alone  bears  the  cold  white  marble  flowers 
which  are  found  011  those  fair  slopes.  And  when  the  next 
morning  dawned,  with  dull  gray  clouds  and  rain,  there 
were  many  who  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  beautiful 
form  which  had  fared  softly  and  delicately  all  its  life, 
which  had  felt  only  the  touch  of  finest  linen  and  softest 
silk,  which  had  never  suffered  from  the  cold  or  the  storm, 
now  lying  there  alone  in  the  dark  soaked  earth,  with  the 
rain  falling  upon  its  defenseless  head,  and  no  one  near 
to  replace  the  wet  lilies  which  the  wind  had  blown  from 
the  mound. 

But  those  who  were  thinking  thus  were  mistaken :  some 
one  was  near.  A  girl  clad  in  black  and  closely  veiled 
stood  beside  the  new-made  grave,  with  tears  dropping  on 
her  cheeks,  and  her  hand  pressed  over  her  heart.  There 
were  many  mourners  yesterday ;  there  was  but  one  to-day. 
There  were  many  flowers  then ;  now  there  was  only  the 
bunch  of  violets  which  this  girl  had  brought.  She  had 
knelt  beside  the  mound,  her  head  undefended  from  the 
rain,  and  had  prayed  silently.  Then  she  had  risen,  but 
still  she  could  not  go.  She  paced  slowly  up  and  down 
beside  the  grave,  like  a  sentinel  keeping  watch;  only 
when  she  perceived  that  one  of  the  men  employed  in  the 
cemetery  was  watching  her  curiously,  no  doubt  wonder 
ing  why  she  remained  there  in  the  storm,  did  she  turn 
away  at  last,  and  go  homeward  again  by  the  long  route 
she  had  traversed  in  coming. 

For  Anne  had  not  dared  to  go  to  the  funeral ;  had  not 
dared  to  go  to  Miss  Teller.  The  hideous  sentence  in  the 
newspaper  had  filled  her  with  doubt  and  vague  alarm. 
It  was  not  possible  that  she,  Anne,  was  meant ;  and  yet 
Bagshot,  from  whom  this  as  yet  unrevealed  testimony 
was  to  come,  saw  her  on  the  day  she  visited  Helen,  after 
the  tidings  of  her  husband's  death.  Surely  this  was  too 
slight  a  foundation  upon  which  to  found  her  vague  alarm. 
She  repeated  to  herself  that  her  dread  was  unreasonable, 
yet  it  would  not  down.  If  the  danger  had  been  open,  she 


ANNE.  449 

could  have  faced  and  defied  it ;  but  this  mute,  unknown 
something,  which  was  only  to  be  revealed  by  the  power 
and  in  the  presence  of  the  law,  held  her  back,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  afraid  almost  to  breathe.  For  her  presence  or 
words  might,  in  some  way  she  could  not  foresee  or  even 
comprehend,  bring  increased  danger  upon  the  head  of  the 
accused  man,  already  weighted  down  with  a  crushing 
load  of  suspicion,  which  grew  heavier  every  hour. 

Suspense  supplies  a  calmness  of  its  own.  Anne  wen* 
into  the  city  as  usual,  gave  her  lessons,  and  went  through 
all  the  forms  of  her  accustomed  living,  both  at  home 
and  abroad.  Yet  all  the  time  she  was  accompanied  by  a 
muffled  shape,  its  ghostly  eyes  fixed  upon  her  through  its 
dark  veil,  menacing  but  silent.  It  was  dread. 

When  the  hour  came,  and  she  knew  that  the  old  words 
were  being  spoken  over  Helen :  "  In  the  midst  of  life  we 
are  in  death:  of  whom  may  we  seek  for  succor  but  of 
Thee  ?"  "Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or 
ever  the  earth  and  the  world  were  made,  Thou  art  God 
from  everlasting."  "A  thousand  years  in  Thy  sight  are 
but  as  yesterday,  seeing  that  is  past  as  a  watch  in  the 
night."  "And  now,  Lord,  what  is  my  hope  ?  Truly  my 
hope  is  even  in  Thee" — she  bowed  her  head  and  joined  in 
the  sentences  mutely,  present  at  least  in  spirit.  The  next 
day,  while  the  rain  fell  sombrely,  she  went  to  the  distant 
cemetery:  no  one  would  be  there  in  the  storm,  and  she 
wished  to  stand  once  more  by  Helen's  side — poor  Helen, 
beautiful  Helen,  taken  from  this  life's  errors  forever, 
perhaps  already,  in  another  world,  understanding  all,  re 
pentant  for  all,  forgiving  all. 

There  was  no  one  to  whom  Anne  could  speak  upon  the 
subject  which  was  burning  like  a  constant  fire  within  her 
heart.  And  when,  a  few  days  later,  a  letter  came  from 
Gregory  Dexter,  she  opened  it  eagerly :  there  would  be, 
there  must  be,  comfort  here.  She  read  the  pages  quickly, 
and  her  heart  stood  still.  "  If  I  thought  that  there  was  the 
least  danger  that  the  secret  of  this  cowardly,  cruel  deed 
would  not  be  found  out,"  wrote  Dexter,  "I  should  at 
once  leave  all  this  labor  in  which  I  am  engaged,  impor 
tant  as  it  is,  and  devote  myself  to  the  search  for  proofs  to 

29 


450  ANNE. 

convict  tlie  murderer.  Never  in  my  life  has  my  desire  for 
swift,  sharp  justice  been  so  deeply  stirred." 

Anne  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  trembling  hand.  If 
he  "thought  that  there  was  the  least  danger";  then  he 
thought  there  was  none.  But  so  far  no  one  had  been 
apprehended,  or  even  suspected,  save  Ward  Heathcote 
alone.  Did  he  think,  then,  that  Heathcote  was  guilty  ? 
Could  he  think  this,  knowing  him  as  he  did,  having  been 
in  a  certain  sense  his  companion  and  friend  ? 

Dexter  had  not  liked  Heathcote  personally,  but  he  was 
capable  of  just  judgment  above  his  personal  likings  and 
dislikings,  and  Anne  knew  it.  She  knew  that  he  had 
examined  the  testimony  impartially.  It  must  be,  then, 
it  must  be,  that  there  were  grounds  for  his  belief.  She 
took  her  pen  and  wrote  a  burning  letter — a  letter  of 
entreaty  and  passionate  remonstrance.  And  then,  the 
next  morning,  she  burned  it :  she  must  not  write  or  speak 
on  the  subject  at  all,  not  even  to  him. 

The  slow  days  moved  onward  like  the  processions  of 
a  dream.  But  no  one  noticed  any  change  in  the  young 
teacher,  who  journeyed  wearily  through  the  long  hours. 
Old  Nora  saw  the  piles  of  newspapers  in  her  mistress's 
room,  but  as  she  could  not  read,  they  betrayed  nothing. 
She  would  not,  besides,  have  recognized  Helen  under  the 
name  of  Heathcote ;  the  beautiful  lady  who  had  visited 
the  half-house  in  the  days  of  Jeanne-Armande  was  named 
Lorrington.  The  slow  days  moved  on,  but  not  without 
events.  In  this  case  the  law  had  moved  speedily.  An 
indictment  had  been  found,  and  the  trial  was  to  take  place 
without  delay  in  the  county  town  of  the  district  to  which 
Timloesville  belonged. 

Miss  Teller  had  gone  to  this  town ;  the  newspapers  said 
that  she  had  taken  a  house,  and  would  remain  during  the 
trial,  or  as  long  as  Captain  Heathcote  was  confined  there. 
Anne,  reading  these  items,  reading  the  many  descriptions 
of  Heathcote,  the  suggestions  regarding  the  murder,  the 
theories  concerning  the  blunder  (for  it  was  conceded  that 
there  had  been  a  blunder),  asked  herself  wonderingly  if  he 
had  no  friends  left — no  friends  on  earth,  save  herself  and 
Miss  Teller  ?  The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  against  him. 


ANNE.  451 

But  she  judged  only  from  the  newspapers.  There  was  an 
other  side.  This  was  a  small,  local,  but  in  one  way  power 
ful,  minority,  which  stood  by  the  accused  man  immov 
ably.  This  minority  was  composed  almost  entirely  of 
women — women  high  in  New  York  society,  Helen's  own 
companions  and  friends.  They  formed  a  determined 
band  of  champions,  who,  without  condescending  to  use 
any  arguments,  but  simply  through  their  own  personal 
ity,  exerted  a  strong  influence,  limited,  it  is  true,  but  des 
potic.  If  the  case  was  tried  beforehand  by  the  newspa 
pers,  it  was  also  tried  beforehand  by  sweet  voices  and 
scornful  lips  in  many  New  York  drawing-rooms.  Society 
resolved  itself  into  two  parties — those  who  did  and  those 
who  did  not  believe  in  the  guilt  of  the  imprisoned  man. 
Those  who  did  believe  were  almost  all  men ;  those  who 
did  not,  almost  all  women ;  the  exceptions  being  a  few  men 
who  stood  by  Heathcote  in  spite  of  the  evidence,  and  a  few 
women  who,  having  logical  minds,  stood  by  the  evidence 
in  spite  of  themselves. 

When  the  trial  began,  not  only  was  Miss  Teller  present, 
but  Mrs.  Varce  and  Isabel,  Mrs.  Bannert  and  her  daugh 
ter-in-law,  together  with  others  equally  well  known  as 
friends  of  Helen's,  and  prominent  members  of  New 
York's  fashionable  society. 

Multomah,  the  little  county  town,  was  excited ;  its  one 
hotel  was  crowded.  The  country  people  came  in  to  at 
tend  the  trial  from  miles  around ;  great  lawyers  were  to 
be  present,  there  was  to  be  "mighty  fine  speaking."  The 
gentleman  had  murdered  his  wife  for  the  million  dollars 
she  constantly  carried  with  her.  The  gentleman  had 
murdered  his  wife  because  she  had  just  discovered  that 
he  was  already  married  before  he  met  her,  and  he  was 
afraid  she  would  reveal  the  secret.  A  local  preacher  im 
proved  the  occasion  by  a  sermon  decked  profusely  with 
Apollyons  and  Abaddons.  It  was  not  clearly  known 
what  he  meant,  or  where  he  stood ;  but  the  discourse  was 
listened  to  by  a  densely  packed  crowd  of  farming  people, 
who  came  out  wiping  their  foreheads,  and  sat  down  on 
convenient  tombstones  to  talk  it  over,  and  eat  their  din 
ners,  brought  in  baskets,  trying  the  case  again  beforehand 


452  ANNE. 

for  the  five-hundredth  time,  with  texts  and  Scripture 
phrases  thrown  in  to  give  it  a  Sabbath  flavor. 

The  New  York  dailies  had  sent  their  reporters  ;  every 
evening  Anne  read  their  telegraphic  summaries  of  the 
day's  events;  every  morning,  the  account  of  the  same  in 
detail.  She  was  not  skillful  enough  to  extract  the  real 
evidence  from  the  mass  of  irrelevant  testimony  with 
which  it  was  surrounded,  the  questions  and  answers,  the 
confusing  pertinacity  of  the  lawyers  over  some  little  point 
which  seemed  to  her  as  far  from  the  real  subject  as  a  blade 
of  grass  is  from  the  fixed  stars.  She  turned,  therefore,  to 
the  printed  comments  which  day  by  day  accompanied  the 
report  of  the  proceedings,  gathering  from  them  the  pro 
gress  made,  and  their  ideas  of  the  probabilities  which  lay 
in  the  future.  The  progress  seemed  rapid  ;  the  proba 
bilities  were  damning.  No  journal  pretended  that  they 
were  otherwise.  Yet  still  the  able  pens  of  the  calmer 
writers  counselled  deliberation.  ' '  There  have  been  cases 
with  even  closer  evidence  than  this,"  they  warningly 
wrote,  ' '  in  which  the  accused,  by  some  unexpected  and 
apparently  trivial  turn  in  the  testimony,  has  been  proven 
clearly  innocent.  In  this  case,  while  the  evidence  is 
strong,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  motive.  Mrs.  Heath- 
cote  was  much  attached  to  her  husband ;  she  was,  besides, 
a  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  fascinating  woman.  That 
a  man  should  deliberately  plan  to  murder  such  a  wife, 
merely  in  order  to  obtain  possession  of  wealth  which  was 
already  practically  his,  is  incredible ;  and  until  some  more 
reasonable  motive  is  discovered,  many  will  refuse  to  be 
lieve  even  the  evidence." 

Anne,  reading  this  sentence,  felt  faint.  So  far  the  mys 
terious  testimony  to  which  vague  allusion  had  been  made 
in  the  beginning  had  not  been  brought  forward ;  the  time 
had  been  occupied  by  the  evidence  concerning  the  events 
at  Timloesville,  and  the  questioning  and  cross-questioning 
of  the  Timloesville  witnesses.  A  ' '  more  reasonable  mo 
tive."  The  veiled  shape  that  accompanied  her  seemed  to 
assume  more  definite  outline,  and  to  grow  from  Dread 
into  Fear.  And  yet  she  could  not  tell  of  what  she  was 
afraid. 


ANNE.  453 

The  days  passed,  and  she  wondered  how  it  was  that  she 
could  still  eat,  and  sleep,  and  speak  as  usual,  while  her 
whole  being1  was  away  in  that  little  Pennsylvania  town. 
She  did  speak  and  teach  as  usual,  but  she  did  not  eat  or 
sleep.  Something  besides  food  sustained  her.  Was  it 
hope  ?  Or  fear  ?  Oh,  why  did  not  all  the  world  cry  out 
that  he  was  not,  could  not  be  guilty !  Were  people  all 
mad,  and  deaf,  and  blind  ?  She  lived  on  in  a  suspense 
which  was  like  a  continual  endurance  of  suffocation, 
which  yet  never  quite  attains  the  relief  of  death. 

Miss  Teller's  lawyers  labored  with  skill  and  vigilance; 
all  that  talent — nay,  more,  genius — could  do,  they  did. 
Their  theory  was  that  the  murder  was  committed  by  a 
third  person,  who  entered  Mrs.  Heathcote's  room  by  the 
same  outside  stairway  which  her  husband  had  used,  after 
his  departure;  and  they  defied  the  prosecution  to  prove 
that  they  were  wrong.  In  answer  to  this  theory  the  pro 
secution  presented  certain  facts,  namely:  that  Heathcote 
was  seen  entering  by  the  outside  stairway,  and  that  no 
one  else  was  seen ;  that  the  impressions  found  there  were 
those  of  a  left  hand,  and  that  Heathcote  was  at  the  time 
left-handed ;  that  a  towel,  marked  with  the  name  of  the 
hotel  and  stained  with  blood,  was  found  on  the  river-bank 
at  the  end  of  a  direct  trail  from  the  garden,  and  that  the 
chamber-maid  testified  that,  whereas  she  had  placed  four 
towels  in  the  room  a  few  hours  before,  there  were  in  the 
morning  but  two  remaining,  and  that  no  others  were 
missing  from  the  whole  number  owned  by  the  hotel. 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  Anne,  sitting  in  her 
own  room  as  usual  now  in  the  evening,  with  one  news 
paper  in  her  hand  and  the  others  scattered  on  the  floor  by 
her  side,  heard  a  knock  on  the  door  below,  but,  in  her  ab 
sorption,  paid  no  attention  to  it.  In  a  few  moments, 
however,  Nora  came  up  to  say  that  Mr.  Dexter  was  in  the 
parlor,  and  wished  to  see  her. 

Here  was  an  unexpected. trial.  She  had  sent  a  short, 
carefully  guarded  answer  to  his  long  letter,  and  he  had 
not  written  again.  It  had  been  comparatively  easy  to 
guard  written  words.  But  could  she  command  those 
that  must  be  spoken  ?  She  bathed  her  face  in  cold  water, 


454  ANNE. 

and  stood  waiting  until  she  felt  that  she  had  called  up  a 
calmer  expression;  she  charged  herself  to  guard  every 
look,  every  word,  even  the  tones  of  her  voice.  Then  she 
went  down. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"  I  can  account  for  nothing  you  women  do,  although  I  have  lived 
among  you  seventy-five  years." — WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

As  she  entered  the  little  parlor,  Dexter  came  forward 
to  meet  her.  "You  are  looking  very  well,"  he  said, 
almost  reproachfully. 

"I  am  very  well,"  she  answered.      "And  you  ?" 

' '  Not  well  at  all.  What  with  the  constant  and  harass 
ing  work  I  am  doing,  and  this  horrible  affair  concerning 
poor  Helen,  I  confess  that  I  feel  worn  and  old.  It  is  not 
often  that  I  acknowledge  either.  I  have  been  busy  in 
the  city  all  day,  and  must  return  to  my  post  on  the  mid 
night  train ;  but  I  had  two  or  three  hours  to  spare,  and  so 
I  have  come  out  to  see  you .  Before  we  say  anything  else, 
however,  tell  me  about  yourself.  How  is  it  with  you  at 
present  ?" 

Glad  of  a  respite,  she  described  to  him,  with  more  de 
tails  than  she  had  hitherto  thought  necessary,  her  posi 
tion,  her  pupils,  and  her  daily  life.  She  talked  rapidly, 
giving  him  110  opportunity  to  speak;  she  hardly  knew 
herself  as  she  went  along.  At  last,  however,  he  did  break 
through  the  stream  of  her  words.  "  I  am  glad  you  find 
interest  in  these  matters,"  he  said,  coldly.  "With  me 
it  is  different;  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  poor  Helen." 

It  was  come :  now  for  self-control.  All  her  words  fail 
ed  suddenly ;  she  could  not  speak. 

' '  Are  you  not  haunted  by  it  ?"  he  continued.  ' '  Do  you 
not  constantly  see  her  lying  there  asleep,  that  pale  hair 
unbraided,  those  small  helpless  hands  bare  of  all  their  jew 
els — poor  defenseless  little  hands,  decked  only  with  the 
mockery  of  that  wedding  ring  ?" 

He  was  gazing  at  the  wall,  as  though  it  were  all  pictured 
there.  Anne  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  pause  he  went 
on.  "Helen  was  a  fascinating  woman;  but  she  was,  or 


ANNE.  455 

could  be  if  she  chose,  an  intensely  exasperating  woman  as 
well.  I  am  no  coward ;  I  think  I  may  say  the  reverse ; 
but  I  would  rather  be  alone  with  a  tigress  than  with  such 
a  woman  as  she  would  have  been,  if  roused  to  jealous  fury. 
She  would  not  have  stirred,  she  would  not  have  raised  her 
voice,  but  she  would  have  spoken  words  that  would  have 
stung  like  asps  and  cut  like  Damascus  blades.  No  devil 
would  have  shown  in  that  kind  of  torment  greater  ingenu 
ity.  I  am  a  self-controlled  man,  yet  I  can  imagine  Helen 
Lorrington  driving  me,  if  she  had  tried,  into  such  a  state  of 
frenzy  that  I  should  hardly  know  what  I  was  doing.  In 
such  a  case  I  should  end,  I  think,  by  crushing  her  in  my 
arms,  and  fairly  strangling  the  low  voice  that  taunted  me. 
But — I  could  never  have  stabbed  her  in  her  sleep!" 

Again  he  paused,  and  again  Anne  kept  silence.  But 
he  did  not  notice  it ;  he  was  absorbed  in  his  own  train  of 
thought. 

"It  is  a  relief  to  speak  of  this  to  you,"  he  continued, 
4 'for  you  knew  Helen,  and  Heathcote  also.  Do  you 
know  I  can  imagine  just  how  she  worked  upon  him ;  how 
that  fair  face  and  those  narrow  eyes  of  hers  wrought  their 
deadly  darts.  Her  very  want  of  strength  was  an  access 
ory;  for  if  she  could  have  risen  and  struck  him,  if  she 
had  been  capable  of  any  such  strong  action,  the  exasper 
ation  would  have  been  less.  But  that  a  creature  so  help 
less,  one  whose  slight  form  he  had  been  used  to  carry 
about  the  house  in  his  arms,  one  who  could  not  walk  far 
unaided — that  such  a  creature  should  lie  there,  in  all  her 
delicate  beauty,  and  with  barbed  words  deliberately  tor 
ment  him — Anne,  I  can  imagine  a  rush  of  madness  which 
might  well  end  in  murder  and  death.  But  not  a  plot. 
If  he  had  killed  her  in  a  passion,  and  then  boldly  avowed 
the  deed,  giving  himself  up,  I  should  have  had  some  sym 
pathy  with  him,  in  spite  of  the  horror  of  the  deed.  But 
to  arrange  the  method  of  his  crime  (as  he  evidently  tried 
to  do)  so  that  he  w^ould  not  be  discovered,  but  be  enabled 
quietly  to  inherit  her  money — bah !  I  almost  wish  I  were 
the  hangman  myself  !  Out  on  the  border  he  would  have 
been  lynched  long  ago." 

His  listener  still  remained  mute,  but  a  little  fold  of 


456  ANNE. 

flesh  inside  her  lips  was  bitten  through  by  her  clinched 
teeth  in  the  effort  she  made  to  preserve  that  muteness. 

It  seemed  to  have  been  a  relief  to  Dexter  to  let  out  those 
strong-  words.  He  paused,  turned  toward  Anne,  and  for 
the  first  time  noted  her  dress.  ' '  Are  you  in  mourning  ?" 
he  asked,  doubtfully,  looking  at  the  unbroken  black  of  her 
attire. 

1 '  It  is  the  same  dress  I  have  worn  for  several  months." 

He  did  not  know  enough  of  the  details  of  a  woman's 
garb  to  see  that  the  change  came  from  the  absence  of 
white  at  the  throat  and  wrists.  After  Helen's  death  poor 
Anne  had  sewed  black  lace  in  her  plain  black  gown ;  it 
was  the  only  mourning  she  could  allow  herself. 

The  moment  was  now  come  when  she  must  say  some 
thing.  Dexter,  his  outburst  over,  was  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  looking  at  her.  ' '  Miss  Teller  has  gone  to  Multo- 
mah,  I  believe,"  she  remarked,  neutrally. 

"Yes;  singularly  enough,  she  believes  him  innocent. 
I  heard,  while  in  the  city  to-day,  that  the  Varces  and  Ban- 
nerts  and  others  of  that  set  believe  it  also,  and  are  all  at 
Multomah  *  for  the  moral  effect.'  For  the  moral  effect !" 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  scornfully.  ' '  I  wish 
I  had  time  to  run  up  there  myself,"  he  added,  "to  dwell 
upon  the  moral  effect  of  all  those  fine  ladies.  However, 
the  plain  American  people  have  formed  their  own  opin 
ion  of  this  case,  and  are  not  likely  to  be  moved  by  such  in 
fluences.  They  understand.  This  very  evening,  on  the 
train,  I  heard  a  mechanic  say,  '  If  the  jurymen  were  only 
fine  ladies,  now,  that  Heathcote  would  get  off  yet.' " 

"  How  can  you  repeat  such  words?"  said  the  girl,  blaz 
ing  out  suddenly  and  uncontrollably,  as  a  fire  which  has 
been  long  smothered  bursts  into  sudden  and  overpower 
ing  flame  at  the  last. 

"  Of  course  it  is  bad  taste  to  jest  on  such  a  subject.  I 
only —  Why,  Anne,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  For  she  had 
risen  and  was  standing  before  him,  her  eyes  brilliant  with 
an  expression  which  was  almost  hate. 

"You  believe  that  he  did  it  ?"  she  said. 

"I  do." 

"And  I  do  not!     You  say  that  Helen  taunted  him, 


ANNE.  457 

that  she  drove  him  into  a  frenzy ;  you  imagine  the  scene, 
and  picture  its  details.  Know  that  Helen  loved  him  with 
her  whole  heart.  Whatever  she  may  have  been  to  you,  to 
him  she  was  utterly  devoted,  living  upon  his  words  and 
his  smile.  She  esteemed  herself  blessed  simply  to  be  near 
him — in  his  presence;  and,  on  that  very  night,  she  said 
that  no  wife  was  ever  so  happy,  and  that  on  her  knees  she 
had  thanked  her  Creator  for  that  which  made  her  life  one 
long  joy." 

Gregory  Dexter's  face  had  showed  the  profoundest  won 
der  while  the  excited  girl  was  speaking,  but  by  the  time 
she  ceased  he  had,  in  his  quick  way,  grasped  something 
of  the  truth,  unexpected  and  astonishing  though  it  was. 

' '  You  know  this  ?"  he  said.      ' '  Then  she  wrote  to  you. " 

"Yes." 

"On  the  evening  of  her  death?" 

"Yes." 

"  Bagshot  testifies  that  when  she  left  the  room,  at  nine, 
Mrs.  Heathcote  was  writing.  Was  that  this  letter  to  you ?" 

11 1  presume  it  was." 

"When  and  how  was  it  mailed?  Or  rather,  what  is 
the  date  of  the  postmark?" 

"The  next  morning." 

Dexter  looked  at  her  searchingly.  "This  may  prove 
to  be  very  important,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  it — now." 

"Why  have  you  not  spoken  before?" 

"To  whom  could  I  speak?  Besides,  it  has  not  seemed 
important  to  me  until  now ;  for  no  one  has  suggested  that 
she  did  not  love  her  husband,  that  she  tormented  him  and 
drove  him  into  fury,  save  yourself  alone." 

"You  will  see  that  others  will  suggest  it  also,"  said 
Dexter,  unmoved  by  her  scorn.  "  Are  you  prepared  to 
produce  this  letter  ?" 

"I  have  it." 

"Can  I  see  it?" 

' '  I  would  rather  not  show  it. " 

"There  is  determined  concealment  here  somewhere, 
Anne,  and  I  am  much  troubled ;  I  fear  you  stand  very 
near  great  danger.  Remember  that  this  is  a  serious  mat- 


M    ?v>     VL 

458  ANNE. 

ter,  and  ordinary  rules  should  be  set  aside,  ordinary  feel 
ing's  sacrificed.  You  will  do  well  to  show  me  that  let 
ter,  and,  in  short,  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth  plainly.  Do 
you  think  you  have  any  friend  more  steadfast  than  my 
self?" 

"  You  are  kind.     But— you  are  prejudiced." 

"Against  Heathcote,  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Dexter,  a  sud 
den  flash  coming  for  an  instant  into  his  gray  eyes.  "Is 
it  possible  that  you,  you  too,  are  interested  in  that  man  ?" 

But  at  this  touch  upon  her  heart  the  girl  controlled  her 
self  again.  She  resumed  her  seat,  with  her  face  turned 
toward  the  window.  "  I  do  not  believe  that  he  did  it,  and 
you  do,"  she  answered,  quietly.  "That  makes  a  wide 
separation  between  us." 

But  for  the  moment  the  man  who  sat  opposite  had  for 
gotten  the  present,  to  ask  himself,  with  the  same  old  in 
ward  wonder  and  anger,  why  it  was  that  this  other  man, 
who  had  never  done  anything  or  been  anything-  in  his 
life,  who  had  never  denied  himself,  never  worked,  never 
accomplished  anything — why  it  was  that  such  a  man  as 
this  had  led  captive  Helen,  Rachel,  and  now  perhaps  Anne. 
If  it  had  been  a  case  of  great  personal  beauty,  he  could 
have  partially  accounted  for  it,  and — scorned  it.  But  it 
was  not.  Many  a  face  was  more  regularly  handsome  than 
Heathcote's;  he  knew  that  he  himself  would  be  pro 
nounced  by  the  majority  a  handsomer,  although  of  course 
older,  man.  But  when  he  realized  that  he  was  going 
over  this  same  old  bitter  ground,  by  a  strong  effort  of 
will  he  stopped  himself  and  returned  to  reality.  Heath- 
cote's  power,  whatever  it  was,  and  angry  as  it  made  him, 
was  nevertheless  a  fact,  and  Dexter  never  contradicted 
facts.  With  his  accurate  memory,  he  now  went  back  and 
took  up  Anne's  last  answer.  ' '  You  say  I  believe  it.  It 
is  true,"  he  said,  turning  toward  her  (he  had  been  sitting 
with  his  eyes  cast  down  during  this  whirl  of  feeling) ; 
' '  but  my  belief  is  not  founded  upon  prejudice,  as  you  seem 
to  think.  It  rests  upon  the  evidence.  Let  us  go  over  the 
evidence  together :  women,  are  sometimes  intuitively 
right,  even  against  reason." 

"I  can  not  go  over  it." 


ANNE.  459 

But  he  persisted.  "  It  would  be  better,"  he  said,  deter 
mined  to  draw  the  whole  truth  from  her,  if  not  in  one 
way,  then  in  another.  For  he  realized  how  important 
it  was  that  she  should  have  an  adviser. 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes ;  they  were  kind  but 
unyielding.  "Very  well,"  she  said,  making  an  effort  to 
do  even  this.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  folded 
her  hands:  people  could  endure,  then,  more  than  they 
knew. 

Dexter,  not  giving  her  a  moment's  delay,  began  im 
mediately:  his  object  was  to  rouse  her  and  draw  her  out. 
* '  We  will  take  at  first  simply  the  testimony, "  he  said.  ' '  I 
have  the  main  points  here  in  my  note-book.  We  will  even 
suppose  that  we  do  not  know  the  persons  concerned,  but 
think  of  them  as  strangers."  He  went  over  the  evidence 
clearly  and  briefly.  Then  the  theories.  "Note, "he 
said,  "the  difference.  On  one  side  we  have  a  series  of 
facts,  testified  to  by  a  number  of  persons.  On  the  other, 
a  series  of  possibilities,  testified  to  by  no  one  save  the  pris 
oner  himself.  The  defense  is  a  theory  built  to  fit  the 
case,  without  one  proof,  no  matter  how  small,  as  a  foun 
dation." 

Anne  had  not  stirred.  Her  eyes  were  turned  away, 
gazing  into  the  darkness  of  the  garden.  Dexter  closed  his 
note-book,  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket. 

"They  have  advanced  no  further  in  the  real  trial,"  he 
said ;  "but  you  and  I  will  now  drop  our  role  of  strangers, 
and  go  on.  We  know  him ;  we  knew  her.  Can  we  think 
of  any  cause  which  would  account  for  such  an  act  ?  Was 
there  any  reason  why  Ward  Heathcote  would  have  been 
relieved  by  the  death  of  his  wife?" 

Anne  remained  silent. 

"The  common  idea  that  he  wished  to  have  sole  control 
of  her  wealth  will  hardly,  I  think,  be  received  by  those 
who  have  personally  known  him,"  continued  Dexter. 
"He  never  cared  for  money.  He  was,  in  my  opinion, 
ostentatiously  indifferent  to  it."  Here  he  paused  to  con 
trol  the  tone  of  his  voice,  which  was  growing  bitter. 
"I  repeat — can  you  imagine  any  other  reason?"  he  said. 
Still  she  did  not  answer. 


460  ANNE. 

"Why  do  you  not  answer?  I  shall  begin  to  suspect 
that  you  do." 

At  this  she  stirred  a  little,  and  he  was  satisfied.  He 
had  moved  her  from  her  rigidity.  Not  wishing  to  alarm 
her,  he  went  on,  tentatively:  "My  theory  of  the  motive 
you  are  not  willing  to  allow ;  still,  I  consider  it  a  possible 
and  even  probable  one.  For  they  were  not  happy:  he 
was  not  happy.  Beautiful  as  she  was,  rich  as  she  was,  I 
was  told,  when  I  first  came  eastward  in  the  spring,  soon 
after  their  marriage,  that  had  it  not  been  for  that  acci 
dent  and  the  dangerous  illness  that  followed,  Helen  Lor- 
rington  would  never  have  been  Ward  Heathcote's  wife." 

"Who  told  you  this?"  said  Anne,  turning  toward  him. 

' '  I  did  not  hear  it  from  her,  but  it  came  from  her — Ra 
chel  Bannert." 

"  She  is  a  traitorous  woman." 

"  Yes;  but  traitors  betray — the  truth." 

He  was  watching  her  closely;  she  felt  it,  and  turned 
toward  the  window  again,  so  that  he  should  not  see  her 
eyes. 

' '  Suppose  that  he  did  not  love  her,  but  had  married  her 
under  the  influence  of  pity,  when  her  life  hung  by  a 
thread;  suppose  that  she  loved  him — you  say  she  did. 
Can  you  not  imagine  that  there  might  have  been  mo 
ments  when  she  tormented  him  beyond  endurance  con 
cerning  his  past  life — who  knows  but  his  present  also  ? 
She  was  jealous;  and  she  had  wonderful  ingenuity.  But 
I  doubt  if  you  comprehend  what  I  mean :  a  woman  never 
knows  a  woman  as  a  man  knows  her.  And  Heathcote  was 
not  patient.  He  is  a  self-indulgent  man — a  man  who 
has  been  completely  spoiled." 

Again  he  paused.  Then  he  could  not  resist  bringing 
forward  something  else,  under  any  circumstances,  to  show 
her  that  she  was  of  no  consequence  in  the  case  compared 
with  another  person.  "It  is  whispered,  I  hear,  that  the 
maid  will  testify  that  there  was  a  motive,  and  a  strong 
one,  namely,  a  rival;  that  there  was  another  woman 
whom  Heathcote  really  loved,  and  that  Helen  knew  this, 
and  used  the  knowledge." 

The  formless  dread  which   accompanied  Anne  began 


"  HE    ROSE,  AND   TOOK   HER   COLD   HANDS   IN    HIS." 


,  • •. 


ANNE.  461 

now  to  assume  definite  outline  and  draw  nearer.  She 
gazed  at  her  inquisitor  with  eyes  full  of  dumb  distress. 

He  rose,  and  took  her  cold  hands  in  his.  "Child,"  he 
said,  earnestly,  "  I  beseech  you  tell  me  all.  It  will  be  so 
much  better  for  you,  so  much  safer.  You  are  suffering 
intensely.  I  have  seen  it  all  the  evening.  Can  you  not 
trust  me?" 

She  still  looked  at  him  in  silence,  while  the  tears  rose, 
welled  over,  and  rolled  slowly  down. 

"Can  you  not  trust  me ?"  he  repeated. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  as  you  have  told  me  something,  w^hy  not  tell  me 
all?" 

"  I  am  afraid  to  tell  all,"  she  whispered. 

"For  yourself?" 

"No." 

"For  him,  then?" 

"Yes." 

He  clinched  his  hand  involuntarily  as  he  heard  this  an 
swer.  Her  pale  face  and  agitation  were  all  for  him,  then — 
for  Ward  Heathcote ! 

' '  You  are  really  shaken  by  fear, "  he  said.  ' '  I  know  its 
signs,  or  rather  those  of  dread.  It  is  pure  dread  which  has 
possession  of  you  now.  How  unlike  you,  Anne !  How 
unlike  yourself  you  are  at  this  moment!" 

But  she  cared  nothing  for  herself,  nothing  for  the  scorn 
in  his  voice  (the  jealous  are  often  loftily  scornful),  and  he 
saw  that  she  did  not. 

* '  Whom  do  you  fear  ?     The  maid  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  can  she  say?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  and  yet — 

"Is  it  possible— can  it  be  possible,  Anne,  that  you  are 
the  person  implicated,  the  so-called  rival  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  and  it  is  because  I  do  not  know  that 
I  am  so  much  afraid,"  she  answered,  still  in  the  same  low 
whisper. 

' '  But  why  should  you  take  this  possibility  upon  your 
self  ?  Ward  Heathcote  is  no  Sir  Galahad,  Heaven  knows. 
Probably  at  this  moment  twenty  women  are  trembling  as 


462  ANNE. 

you  are  trembling,  fearing  lest  they  be  called  by  name, 
and  forced  forward  before  the  world." 

He  spoke  with  anger.  Anne  did  not  contradict  him, 
but  she  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  weariedly,  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

"  How  can  I  leave  you  ?"  he  said,  breaking  into  his  old 
kindness  again.  "I ought  to  go,  but  it  is  like  leaving  a 
girl  in  the  hands  of  torturers.  If  there  were  only  some  one 
to  be  with  you  here  until  all  this  is  over!" 

"There  is  no  one.     I  want  no  one." 

"You  puzzle  me  deeply,"  he  said,  walking  up  and  down 
with  troubled  anxiety.  "I  can  form  no  opinion  as  to 
whether  your  dread  is  purely  imaginary  or  not,  because 
you  tell  me  nothing.  If  you  were  an  ordinary  woman,  I 
should  not  give  much  thought  to  what  you  say — or  rather 
to  what  you  look,  for  you  say  nothing ;  but  you  are  not  or 
dinary.  You  are  essentially  brave,  and  you  have  fewer 
of  the  fantastic,  irrelevant  fancies  of  women  than  any  girl 
I  have  ever  known.  There  must  be  something,  then,  to 
fear,  since  you  fear  so  intensely.  I  like  you,  Anne ;  I  re 
spect  you.  I  admire  you  too,  more  than  you  know.  You 
are  so  utterly  alone  in  this  trouble  that  I  can  not  desert 
you.  And  I  will  not. " 

"Do  not  stay  on  my  account." 

"But  I  shall.  That  is,  in  the  city;  it  is  decided.  Here 
is  my  address.  Promise  that  if  you  should  wish  help  or  ad 
vice  in  any  way — mark  that  I  say,  in  any  way — you  will 
send  me  instantly  a  dispatch." 

"I  will." 

"  There  is  nothing  more  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"Nothing." 

* '  And  nothing  that  you  will  tell  me  ?  Think  well,  child. " 

"Nothing." 

Then,  as  it  was  late,  he  made  her  renew  her  promise, 
and  went  away. 

The  next  morning  the  package  of  newspapers  was 
brought  to  Anne  from  the  station  at  an  early  hour  as  us 
ual.  She  was  in  her  own  room  waiting  for  them.  She 
watched  the  boy  coming  along  the  road,  and  felt  a  sud- 
deii  thrill  of  anger  when  he  stopped  to  throw  a  stone 


ANNE.  468 

at  a  bird.  To  stop  with  that  in  his  hand!  Old  Nora 
brought  up  the  package.  Anne  took  it,  and  closed  the 
door.  Then  she  sat  down  to  read. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Gregory  Dexter  received  a  telegraphic 
dispatch  from  Lancaster.     "Come  immediately.     A.  D." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"He  was  first  always.     Fortune 

Shone  bright  in  his  face. 
I  fought  for  years ;  with  no  effort 

He  conquered  the  place. 
We  ran ;  my  feet  were  all  bleeding, 

But  he  won  the  race. 

"  My  home  was  still  in  the  shadow ; 

His  lay  in  the  sun. 
I  longed  in  vain;    what  he  asked  for, 

It  straightway  was  done. 
Once  I  staked  all  my  heart's  treasure; 
We  played — and  he  won!" 

— ADELAIDE  PROCTER. 

WHEN  the  dispatch  came,  Dexter  had  not  yet  seen  the 
morning  papers.  He  ate  his  breakfast  hastily,  and  on 
the  way  to  the  station  and  on  the  train  he  read  them  with 
surprise  and  a  tumultuous  mixture  of  other  feelings, 
which  he  did  not  stop  then  to  analyze.  Mrs.  Bagshot 
had  been  brought  forward  a  second  time  by  the  prosecu 
tion,  and  had  testified  to  an  extraordinary  conversation 
which  had  taken  place  between  Mrs.  Heathcote  and  an 
unknown  young  girl  on  the  morning  after  the  news  of 
Captain  Heathcote's  death  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  had 
been  received,  parts  of  which  (the  conversation)  she,  in 
an  adjoining  room,  had  overheard.  He  had  barely  time 
to  grasp  the  tenor  of  the  evidence  (which  was  voluminous 
and  interrupted  by  many  questions)  when  the  train  reach 
ed  Lancaster,  and  he  found  Li  in  waiting  with  the  red 
wagon.  All  Li  could  tell  was  that  Miss  Douglas  was  ' '  go 
ing  on  a  journey."  She  was  "all  ready,  with  her  bon 
net  on." 
•  In  the  little  parlor  he  found  her,  walking  up  and  down, 


464  ANNE. 

as  he  had  walked  during-  the  preceding-  evening-.  White 
as  her  face  was,  there  was  a  new  expression  in  her  eyes — an 
expression  of  energy.  In  some  way  she  had  reached  a  pos 
sibility  of  action,  and  consequently  a  relief.  When  he  had 
entered,  with  a  rapid  motion  she  closed  the  doors.  ' '  Have 
you  read  it  ?"  she  said. 

"You  mean  the  new  testimony?  Yes;  I  read  it  as  I 
came  out." 

"And  you  understood,  of  course,  that  it  was  I?" 

"  I  feared  it  might  be." 

' '  And  you  see  that  I  must  go  immediately  to  Multomah  ?" 

"  By  heavens !  no.  I  see  nothing-  of  the  kind.  Rather 
should  you  hasten  as  far  away  as  possible — to  England, 
Germany — some  distant  spot  where  you  can  safely  rest 
until  all  danger,  danger  of  discovery,  is  over." 

"  So  you  believe  it  also!"  cried  the  girl,  with  scathing 
emphasis.  "You  believe  and  condemn!  Believe  that 
garbled,  distorted  story ;  condemn,  when  you  only  know 
half !  Like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  you  are  in  haste  to 
believe,  glad  to  believe,  the  worst — in  haste  to  join  the 
hue  and  cry  against  a  hunted  man." 

She  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  her  form  drawn  up 
to  its  full  height,  her  eyes  flashing.  She  looked  inspired 
— inspired  with  anger  and  scorn. 

"Then  it  is  garbled ?"  said  Dexter,  finding  time  even  at 
that  moment  to  admire  her  beauty,  which  had  never  be 
fore  been  so  striking. 

' '  It  is.  And  I  must  go  to  Multomah  and  give  the  true 
version.  Tell  me  what  train  to  take." 

4 '  First  tell  me,  Anne ;  tell  me  the  whole  story.  Let  me 
hear  it  before  you  give  it  to  the  world.  Surely  there  can 
be  no  objection  to  my  knowing  it  now." 

"  There  is  no  objection ;  but  I  can  not  lose  the  time.  I 
must  start." 

A  travelling-bag  stood  on  the  table  beside  her  shawl 
and  gloves ;  the  red  wagon  was  waiting  outside.  He  com 
prehended  that  nothing  would  stop  her,  and  took  his  mea 
sures  accordingly. 

"I  can  arrange  everything  for  you,  and  I  will,  and 
without  the  least  delay.  But  first  you  must  tell  me  the 


ANNE.  465 

whole,"  he  said,  sitting  down  and  folding  his  arms.  "  I 
will  not  work  in  the  dark.  As  to  time,  the  loss  of  an 
hour  is  nothing  compared  with  the  importance  of  gaining 
my  co-operation,  for  the  moment  I  am  convinced,  I  will 
telegraph  to  the  court-room  itself,  and  stop  proceedings 
until  you  arrive.  With  my  help,  my  name,  my  influence, 
behind  you,  you  can  accomplish  anything.  But  what 
could  you  do  alone?  You  would  be  misunderstood,  mis 
represented,  subjected  to  doubt,  suspicion,  perhaps  insult. 
Have  you  thought  of  this  ?" 

"I  mind  nothing  if  I  can  but  save  him." 

1 '  But  if  you  can  save  him  more  effectually  with  my  as 
sistance?" 

"How  can  that  be,  when  you  dislike,  suspect  him  ?" 

"Do  you  wish  to  drive  me  into  a  rage  ?  Can  I  not  be 
just  to  Ward  Heathcote  whether  I  like  him  or  not,  suspect 
him  or  not  ?  Yes,  even  though  I  believe  him  to  be  guilty  ? 
Try  me.  If  I  promise  to  go  with  you  to  Multomah  to-day, 
even  if  I  think  your  presence  there  will  be  of  110  avail, 
will  that  induce  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  promise." 

Without  pausing,  she  sat  down  by  the  table,  taking  a 
newspaper  from  her  pocket.  ' '  You  have  one, "  she  said ; 
' '  please  follow  me  in  the  one  you  have.  When  I  saw 
the  notice  of  his  death,  I  went  immediately  to  Helen. 
This  woman  Bagshot  testifies  that  she  was  in  the  next 
room.  I  am  positive  that  at  first  both  the  doors  of  Helen's 
room  were  closed ;  Bagshot,  therefore,  must  have  slightly 
opened  one  of  them  afterward  unobserved  by  us.  There 
was  a  curtain  hanging  partly  over  this  door,  but  only 
partly ;  she  could  have  opened  it,  therefore,  but  slightly, 
or  we  should  have  noticed  the  change.  This  accounts  for 
the  little  that  she  caught — only  those  sentences  that  were 
spoken  in  an  elevated  voice,  for  Helen's  room  is  large.  It 
will  shorten  the  story,  I  think,  if  we  read  the  summary  on 
the  editorial  page."  And  in  a  clear  voice  she  read  as  fol 
lows  :  "  '  Our  readers  will  remember  that  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Heathcote  trial  we  expressed  the  opinion  that  until 
some  more  probable  motive  for  the  deed  than  the  desire 

30 


466  ANNE. 

to  obtain  control  of  wealth  already  practically  his  own  was 
discovered  in  connection  with  the  accused,  the  dispassion 
ate  observer  would  refuse  to  believe  his  guilt,  despite  the 
threatening-  nature  of  the  evidence.  This  motive  ap 
pears  now  to  have  been  supplied.  In  another  column 
parts  of  a  remarkable  conversation  are  given,  overheard 
by  the  witness  Bagshot— a  conversation  between  Mrs. 
Heathcote  and  an  unknown  and  beautiful  young  girl, 
who  came  to  the  house  on  the  morning  after  the  announce 
ment  of  Captain  Heathcote's  death  in  the  Shenandoah 
Valley,  and  before  the  contradiction  of  the  same  had  been 
received.  This  young  girl  was  a  stranger  to  the  man  Simp 
son,  who  opened  the  front  door,  and  Simpson  has  been  in 
Mrs.  Heathcote's  service  for  some  time.  He  testifies  that 
she  was  denied  entrance,  Mrs.  Heathcote  not  being  able  to 
see  any  one.  She  then  tore  a  leaf  from  her  note-book, 
wrote  a  line  upon  it,  and  requested  him  to  carry  it  to  his 
mistress,  adding  that  she  thought  Mrs.  Heathcote  would 
see  her.  As  intimate  friends  had  already  been  refused, 
Simpson  was  incredulous,  but  performed  his  duty.  To 
his  surprise,  Mrs.  Heathcote  sent  Bagshot  to  say  that  the 
stranger  was  to  come  to  her  immediately,  and  accordingly 
she  was  ushered  up  stairs,  and  the  door  closed.  Upon  be 
ing  questioned  as  to  what  the  line  of  writing  was,  Simp 
son  replied  that  he  did  not  read  it.  Bagshot,  however, 
testifies  that,  in  accordance  with  her  duty,  she  cast  her  eye 
over  it,  and  that  it  contained  the  following  words:  "Do 
let  me  come  to  you.  Crystal."  The  word  ' '  Crystal"  was 
a  signature,  and  Mrs.  Heathcote  seemed  to  recognize  it. 
Bagshot  testifies  that  the  visitor  was  young  and  beautiful, 
although  plainly,  almost  poorly,  dressed,  and  that  she  re 
mained  with  Mrs.  Heathcote  nearly  two  hours.  Very  soon 
after  her  departure  the  telegraphic  dispatch  was  received 
announcing  Captain  Heathcote's  safety,  and  then  the  wife 
started  on  that  fatal  journey  which  was  to  end  in  death. 

"  *  This  woman,  Bagshot,  so  far  the  most  important  wit 
ness  in  the  case,  testifies  that  she  heard  only  parts  of  the 
conversation — a  few  detached  sentences  which  were  spok 
en  in  an  elevated  tone.  But,  disconnected  as  the  phrased 
are,  they  are  brimming  with  significance.  The  important 


ANNE.  4G7 

parts  of  her  story  are  as  follows :  First,  she  heard  Mrs. 
Heathcote  say,  "  I  shall  never  rest  until  you  tell  me  all  !'1 
Second,  that  she  cried  out  excitedly :  ' '  You  have  robbed 
me  of  his  love.  I  will  never  forgive  you."  Third,  that 
she  said,  rapidly  and  in  a  high,  strained  voice:  "Since 
he  saw  you  he  has  never  loved  me;  I  see  it  now.  He 
married  me  from  pity,  no  doubt  thinking  that  I  was  near 
death.  How  many  times  he  must  have  wished  me  dead 
indeed!  I  wonder  that  he  has  not  murdered  me." 
Fourth,  that  later  she  said  :  "Yes,  he  has  borne  it  so  far, 
and  now  he  is  dead.  But  if  he  were  alive,  I  should  have 
taunted  him  with  it.  Do  you  hear  ?  I  say  I  should  have 
taunted  him."  Fifth  (and  most  remarkable  of  all),  that 
this  stranger  made  a  strong  and  open  avowal  of  her  own 
love  for  the  dead  man,  the  extraordinary  words  of  which 
are  given  in  another  column.  There  are  several  other 
sentences,  but  they  are  unfinished  and  comparatively  un 
important. 

' ' '  The  intelligent  observer  will  not  fail  to  note  the  sig 
nificance  of  this  testimony,  which  bears  upon  the  case  not 
only  by  supplying  a  motive  for  the  deed,  but  also,  possi 
bly,  its  immediate  cause,  in  the  words  of  the  deeply  roused 
and  jealous  wife :  "  I  should  have  taunted  him  with  it.  I 
say  I  should  have  taunted  him." 

' ' '  The  witness  has  been  subjected  to  the  closest  cross- 
questioning;  it  seems  impossible  to  confuse  her,  or  to 
shake  her  evidence  in  the  slightest  degree.  Divest  her 
testimony  of  all  comment  and  theory,  and  it  still  remains 
as  nearly  conclusive  as  any  evidence,  save  ocular,  can  be. 
She  it  is  who  saw  the  prisoner  enter  his  wife's  room  by 
stealth  shortly  before  the  murder;  she  it  is  who  over 
heard  the  avowral  of  the  rival,  the  rage  and  bitter  jealousy 
of  the  wife,  and  her  declaration  that  if  her  husband  had 
lived  she  would  have  made  known  to  him  her  discovery, 
and  tatfnted  him  with  it. 

' ' '  He  did  live ;  the  report  of  his  death  was  a  mistake. 
It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  wife  carried  out  her 
threat.'" 

Here  Anne  paused  and  laid  the  newspaper  down ;  she 
was  composed  and  grave. 


468  ANNE. 

"I  will  now  tell  you,"  she  said,  lifting-  her  eyes  to 
Dexter's  face,  ' '  what  really  occurred  and  what  really  was 
said.  As  I  stated  before,  upon  seeing  the  announcement 
of  her  husband's  death,  I  went  to  Helen.  I  wrote  upon 
a  slip  of  paper  the  line  you  have  heard,  and  signed  the 
name  by  which  she  always  called  me.  As  I  had  hoped, 
she  consented  to  see  me,  and  this  woman,  Bagshot,  took 
me  up  stairs  to  her  room.  We  were  alone.  Both  doors 
were  closed  at  first,  I  know;  we  supposed  that  they  re 
mained  closed  all  the  time.  I  knelt  down  by  the  low  couch 
and  took  her  in  my  arms.  I  kissed  her,  and  stroked  her 
hair.  I  could  not  cry;  neither  could  she.  I  sorrowed 
over  her  in  silence.  For  some  time  we  did  not  speak.  But 
after  a  while,  with  a  long  sigh,  she  said,  'Anne,  I  deceived 
him  about  the  name  in  the  marriage  notice — Angelique ; 
I  let  him  think  that  it  was  you.'  I  said,  'It  is  of  no 
consequence,'  but  she  went  on.  She  said  that  after  that 
summer  at  Caryl's  she  had  noticed  a  change  in  him,  but 
that  she  did  not  think  of  me ;  she  thought  only  of  Rachel 
Bannert.  But  when  he  brought  her  the  marriage  notice, 
and  asked  if  it  were  I,  in  an  instant  an  entirely  new  sus 
picion  leaped  into  her  heart,  roused  by  something  in  the 
tone  of  his  voice:  she  always  judged  him  by  his  voice. 
From  that  moment,  she  said,  she  had  never  been  free  from 
the  jealous  apprehension  that  he  had  loved  me ;  and  then, 
looking  at  me  as  she  lay  in  my  arms,  she  asked,  '  But  he 
never  did,  did  he?' 

"If  I  could  have  evaded  her  then,  perhaps  we  should 
both  have  been  spared  all  that  followed,  for  we  both  suf 
fered  deeply.  But  I  did  not  know  how ;  I  answered :  ;  He 
had  fancies,  Helen;  I  may  have  been  one  of  them.  But 
only  for  a  short  time.  You  were  his  wife.'  And  then 
I  asked  her  if  her  married  life  had  not  been  happy. 

'"Yes,  yes,' she  answered.  'I worshipped  him.'  And 
as  she  said  this  she  began  at  last  to  sob,  and  the  first  tears 
she  had  shed  flowed  from  her  eyes,  which  had  been  so 
dulled  and  narrowed  that  they  had  looked  dead.  But  she 
had  not  been  satisfied,  and  later  she  came  back  to  the  sub 
ject  again.  She  did  it  suddenly;  seizing  my  arm,  and  lift 
ing  herself  up,  she  cried  out  quickly  that  first  sentence 


ANNE.  469 

overheard  by  Bagshot — '  I  shall  never  rest  until  you  tell 
me  all!'  Then,  in  a  beseeching  tone,  she  added:  'Do  not 
keep  it  from  me.  I  know  that  he  did  not  love  me  as  I 
loved  him ;  still,  he  loved  me,  and  I — was  content.  What 
you  have  to  tell,  therefore,  can  not  hurt  me,  for — I  was 
content.  Then  speak,  Anne,  speak.' 

' '  I  tried  to  quiet  her,  but  she  clung  to  me  entreatingly. 
'  Tell  me — tell  me  all, '  she  begged.  '  When  they  bring  him 
home,  and  I  see  his  still  face  lying  in  the  coffin,  I  want  to 
stand  beside  him  with  my  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  whis 
per  that  I  know  all,  understand  all,  forgive  all,  if  there 
were  anything  to  forgive.  Anne,  he  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that — yes,  even  in  death;  for  I  loved  him — love  him — 
with  all  my  soul,  and  he  must  know  it  now,  there  where 
he  has  gone.  With  all  my  imperfections,  my  follies,  my 
deceptions,  I  loved  him — loved  him — loved  him. '  She  be 
gan  to  weep,  and  I  too  burst  into  tears.  It  seemed  to  me 
also  that  he  would  be  glad  to  hear  that  sentence  of  hers, 
that  forgiveness.  And  so,  judging  her  by  myself,  I  did 
tell  her  all." 

She  paused,  and  her  voice  trembled,  as  though  in  anoth 
er  moment  it  would  break  into  sobs. 

"  What  did  you  tell  her  ?"  said  Dexter.  He  was  lean 
ing  back  in  his  chair,  his  face  divested  of  all  expression 
save  a  rigid  impartiality. 

"Must  I  repeat  it?" 

"Of  course,  if  I  am  to  know  all."' 

"  I  told  her  that  at  Caryl's  we  had  been  much  together," 
she  began,  with  downcast  eyes;  "that,  after  a  while,  he 
made  himself  seem  much  nearer  to  me  by— by  speaking 
of — by  asking  me  about — sacred  things — I  mean  a  religious 
belief."  (Here  her  listener's  face  showed  a  quick  gleam 
of  angry  contempt,  but  she  did  not  see  it.)  "Then,  after 
this,  one  morning  in  the  garden,  when  I  was  in  great 
trouble,  he — spoke  to  me — in  another  way.  And  when  I 
went  away  from  Caryl's  he  followed  me,  and  we  were  to 
gether  on  a  train  during  one  day;  mademoiselle  was  with 
us.  At  evening  I  left  the  train  with  mademoiselle:  he 
did  not  know  where  we  went.  At  this  time  I  was  en 
gaged  to  Erastus  Pronando.  In  August  of  the  next  sum- 


470 

mer  I  went  to  West  Virginia  to  assist  in  the  hospitals  for 
a  short  time.  Here,  unexpectedly,  I  heard  of  him  lying 
ill  at  a  farm-house  in  the  neighborhood ;  I  did  not  even 
know  that  he  was  in  the  army.  I  went  across  the  mount 
ain  to  see  if  he  were  in  good  hands,  and  found  him  very 
ill ;  he  did  not  know  me.  When  the  fever  subsided,  there 
were  a  few  hours — during  which  there  was  a — deception, 
followed  by  a  confession  of  the  same,  and  separation. 
He  was  to  go  back  to  his  wife,  and  he  did  go  back  to  her. 
It  was  because  I  believed  that  he  had  so  fully  gone  back  to 
her— or  rather  that  he  had  never  left  her,  I  having  been 
but  a  passing  fancy — that  I  told  Helen  all.  She  suspected 
something ;  it  was  better  that  she  should  know  the  whole 
— should  know  how  short-lived  had  been  his  interest  in 
me,  his  forgetfulness  of  her.  But  instead  of  making  this 
impression  upon  her,  it  roused  in  her  a  passion  of  excite 
ment.  It  was  then  that  she  exclaimed :  '  You  have  robbed 
me  of  his  love;  I  will  never  forgive  you' — the  second 
sentence  overheard  by  that  listening  spy. 

'  'Helen,'  I  answered,  'he  did  not  love  me.  Do  you 
not  see  that  ?  /  am  the  one  humiliated.  When  I  saw 
you  with  him  at  St.  Lucien's  Church,  I  knew  that  he  loved 
you — probably  had  never  loved  any  one  save  you.' 

"I  believed  what  I  said.  But  this  is  what  she  an 
swered  :  '  It  is  not  true.  Since  he  saw  you  he  has  never 
loved  me.  I  see  it  now.  He  married  me  from  pity,  no 
doubt  thinking  that  I  was  near  death.  How  many  times 
he  must  have  wished  me  dead  indeed !  I  wonder  that  he 
has  not  murdered  me.' 

* '  This,  also,  Bagshot  heard,  for  Helen  had  risen  to  her 
feet,  and  spoke  in  a  high,  strained  voice,  unlike  her  own. 
I  put  my  arms  round  her  and  drew  her  down  again.  She 
struggled,  but  I  would  not  let  her  go. 

"  '  Helen,'  I  said,  '  you  are  beside  yourself.  You  were 
his  wife,  and  you  were  happy.  That  one  look  I  had  in 
church  showed  me  that  you  were.' 

' '  She  relapsed  into  stillness.  After  a  while  she  look 
ed  up,  and  said,  quietly,  'It  is  a  good  thing  he  is  dead.' 

' '  Hush !'  I  ans wered ;  '  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying.' 


ANNE.  471 

"  *  Yes,  I  do.  It  is  a  good  thing  that  he  is  dead,'  she  re 
peated  ;  '  for  I  should  have  found  it  out,  and  made  his  life 
a  torment.  And  I  should  never  have  died ;  it  would  have 
determined  me  never  to  die.  I  should  have  lived  on  for 
ever,  an  old,  old  woman,  close  to  him  always,  so  that  he 
could  not  have  you."1 

"She  seemed  half  mad;  I  think,  at  the  moment,  she 
was  half  mad,  owing  to  the  shock,  and  to  the  dumb  grief 
which  was  consuming  her. 

"  *  It  would  have  been  a  strange  life  we  should  have  led, ' 
she  went  on.  '  I  would  not  have  left  him  even  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  he  should  have  put  on  rny  shawl  and  carried  me  to 
and  fro  just  the  same,  and  I  should  have  kissed  him  al 
ways  when  he  went  out  and  came  in,  as  though  we  loved 
each  other.  I  know  his  nature.  It  is — O  God !  I  mean 
it  was— the  kind  I  could  have  worked  upon.  He  was 
generous,  very  tender  to  all  women ;  he  would  have  yield 
ed  to  me  always,  so  far  as  bearing  silently  all  my  torments 
to  the  last.1 " 

Here  Dexter  interrupted  the  speaker.  "  You  will  ac 
knowledge  now  what  I  said  concerning  her  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Anne;  " Helen  imagined  it  all.  She 
could  never  have  carried  it  out.  She  loved  him  too 
deeply." 

Her  eyes  met  his  defiantly.  The  old  feeling  that  he 
was  an  antagonist  rose  in  her  face  for  a  moment,  met 
by  a  corresponding  retort  in  his.  Then  they  both  dropped 
their  glance,  and  she  resumed  her  narrative. 

"  It  was  here  that  she  cried  out,  '  Yes,  he  has  borne  it 
so  far,  and  now  he  is  dead.  But  if  he  were  alive,  I  should 
have  taunted  him  with  it.  Do  you  hear  ?  I  say  I  should 
have  taunted  him.1  This  also  Bagshot  overheard.  And 
then —  She  paused. 

' '  And  then  ?"  repeated  Dexter,  his  eyes  full  upon  her 
face. 

"  She  grew  calmer,"  said  the  girl,  turning  her  face  from 
him,  and  speaking  for  the  first  time  hurriedly ;  ' '  she  even 
kissed  me.  '  You  were  always  good  and  true,1  she  said. 
'  But  it  was  easy  to  be  good  and  true,  if  you  did  not  love 
him.1  I  suppose  she  felt  my  heart  throb  suddenly  (she 


472  ANNE. 

was  lying  in  my  arras),  for  she  sprang  up,  and  wound  her 
arms  round  my  neck,  bringing  her  eyes  close  to  mine. 
Did  you  love  him?'  she  asked.  'Tell  me — tell  me;  it 
will  do  no  harm  now.' 

"But  I  drew  myself  out  of  her  grasp,  although  she 
clung  to  me.  I  crossed  the  room.  She  followed  me. 
'  Tell  me,'  she  whispered ;  '  1  shall  not  mind  it.  Indeed, 
I  wish  that  you  did  love  him,  that  you  .do  love  him,  for 
then  we  would  mourn  for  him  together.  I  can  be  jea 
lous  of  his  love  for  you,  but  not  of  yours  for  him,  poor 
child.  Tell  me,  Anne ;  tell  me.  I  long  to  know  that  you 
are  miserable  too.'  She  was  leaning  on  me:  in  truth, 
she  was  too  weak  to  stand  alone.  She  clung  to  me  in  the 
old  caressing  way.  '  Tell  me,'  she  whispered.  But  I  set- 
my  lips.  Then,  still  clinging  to  me,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
mine,  she  said  that  I  could  not  love ;  that  I  did  not  know 
what  love  meant;  that  I  never  would  know,  because  my 
nature  was  too  calm,  too  measured.  She  spoke  other  de 
riding  words,  which  I  will  not  repeat ;  and  then — and  then 
— I  do  not  know  how  it  came  about,  but  I  pushed  her 
from  me,  with  her  whispering  voice  and  shining  eyes,  and 
spoke  out  aloud  (we  were  standing  near  that  door)  those 
words — those  words  which  Bagshot  has  repeated." 

"You  said  those  words  ?" 

"I  did." 

"  Then  you  loved  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

' '  Do  you  love  him  now  ?" 

As  Dexter  asked  this  question  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  with  a  strange  intentness.  At  first  she  met  his  gaze 
with  the  same  absorbed  expression  unconscious  of  self 
which  her  face  had  worn  from  the  beginning.  Then  a 
burning  blush  rose,  spread  itself  over  her  forehead,  and 
dyed  even  her  throat  before  it  faded.  ' '  You  have  no  right 
to  ask  that, "  she  said,  returning  to  her  narrative  with  haste, 
as  though  it  were  a  refuge. 

"  After  I  had  said  those  words,  there  was  no  more  bit 
terness  between  us.  I  think  then  Helen  forgave  me. 
She  asked  me  to  come  and  live  with  her  in  her  desolation. 
I  answered  that  perhaps  later  I  could  come,  but  not  then; 


ANNE.  473 

and  it  was  at  this  time  that  she  said,  not  what  Bagshot 
has  reported,  '  You  can  not  conquer  hate,'  but,  '  You  can 
not  conquer  fate.'  And  she  added :  '  We  two  must  be  to 
gether,  Anne;  we  are  bound  by  a  tie  which  can  not  be 
severed,  even  though  we  may  wish  it.  You  must  bear 
with  me,  and  I  must  suffer  you.  It  is  our  fate. ' 

"  Later,  she  grew  more  feverish;  her  strength  was  ex 
hausted.  But  when  at  last  I  rose  to  go,  she  went  with 
me  to  the  door.  '  If  he  had  lived,'  she  said,  'one  of  us 
must  have  died.'  Then  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 
'Changed  or  died.'  she  added.  '  And  as  we  are  not  the 
kind  of  women  who  change,  it  would  have  ended  in  the 
wearing  out  of  the  life  of  one  of  us — the  one  who  loved  the 
most.  And  people  would  have  called  it  by  some  other 
name,  and  that  would  have  been  the  end.  But  now  it  is 
he  who  has  been  taken,  and — oh !  I  can  not  bear  it — I  can 
not,  can  not  bear  it !'  "  She  paused;  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"Is  that  all  ?"  said  Dexter,  coldly. 

"That  is  all." 

Then  there  was  a  silence. 

' '  Do  you  not  think  it  important  ?"  she  asked  at  last, 
with  a  new  timidity  in  her  voice. 

"It  will  make  an  impression;  it  will  be  your  word 
against  Bagshot's.  The  point  proved  will  be  that  instead 
of  your  having  separated  in  anger,  with  words  of  bitter 
ness  and  jealousy,  you  separated  in  peace,  as  friends.  Her 
letter  will  be  important,  if  it  proves  this." 

' '  It  does.  I  have  also  another — a  little  note  telling  me 
of  her  husband's  safety,  and  dropped  into  a  letter-box  on 
her  way  to  the  train.  And  I  have  the  locket  she  gave  me 
on  the  day  of  our  last  interview.  She  took  it  from  her 
own  neck  and  clasped  it  round  mine  a  moment  before  I  left 
her." 

"Did  Bagshot  know  of  the  existence  of  this  locket?" 

"She  must  have  known  it.  For  Helen  said  she  al 
ways  wore  it;  and  Bagshot  dressed  her  daily." 

' '  Will  you  let  me  see  it  ?  And  the  two  letters  also,  if 
they  are  here  ?" 

"They  are  up  stairs.     I  will  get  them." 


474  ANNE. 

What  he  wished  to  find  out  was  whether  she  wore  the 
locket.  She  came  back  so  soon  that  he  said  to  himself 
she  could  not  have  had  it  on — there  had  not  been  time 
to  remove  it ;  besides,  as  he  held  it  in  his  hand  it  was  not 
warm.  He  read  the  two  letters  carefully.  Then  he  took 
up  the  locket  again  and  examined  it.  It  was  a  costly 
trinket,  set  with  diamonds ;  within  was  a  miniature,  a  life 
like  picture  of  Helen's  husband. 

He  looked  at  his  rival  silently.  The  man  was  in  prison, 
charged  with  the  highest  crime  in  the  catalogue  of  crimes, 
and  Dexter  believed  him  guilty.  Yet  it  was,  all  the  same, 
above  all  and  through  all,  the  face  of  his  rival  still — of 
his  triumphant,  successful  rival. 

He  laid  down  the  locket,  rose,  and  went  over  to  Anne. 

She  was  standing  by  the  window,  much  dejected  that 
he  had  not  been  more  impressed  by  the  importance  of 
that  which  she  had  revealed.  She  looked  up  as  he  came 
near. 

"Anne, "he  said,  "I  have  promised  to  take  you  to 
Multomah,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise,  if  you  insist. 
But  have  you  considered  that  if  you  correct  and  restate 
Bagshot's  testimony  in  all  the  other  points,  you  will  also 
be  required  to  acknowledge  the  words  of  that  confession  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  she  murmured,  turning  toward  the 
window  again. 

' '  It  can  not  but  be  horribly  repugnant  to  you.  Think 
how  you  will  be  talked  about,  misunderstood.  The  news 
papers  will  be  black  with  your  name ;  it  will  go  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land  accompanied  with  jests, 
and  possibly  with  worse  than  jests.  Anne,  look  up ;  listen 
to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  Marry  me,  Anne ;  marry  me 
to-day ;  and  go  on  the  witness  stand — if  go  you  must — as 
my  wife." 

She  gazed  at  him,  her  eyes  widened  with  surprise. 

He  took  her  hands,  and  began  to  plead.  "It  is  a 
strange  time  in  which  to  woo  you ;  but  it  is  a  strange  or 
deal  which  you  have  to  go  through.  As  my  wife,  no  one 
will  dare  to  insult  you  or  to  misconstrue  your  evidence ;  for 
your  marriage  will  have  given  the  lie  beforehand  to  the 
worst  comment  that  can  be  made,  namely,  that  you  still 


ANNE.  475 

love  Heathcote,  and  hope,  if  he  is  acquitted,  to  be  his  wife. 
It  will  be  said  that  you  loved  him  once,  but  that  thi& 
tragedy  has  changed  the  feeling,  and  you  will  be  called 
noble  in  coming  forward  of  your  own  accord  to  acknow 
ledge  an  avowal  which  must  be  now  painful  to  you  in 
the  extreme.  The  '  unknown  young  girl'  will  be  unknown 
no  longer,  when  she  comes  forward  as  Gregory  Dexter's 
wife,  with  Gregory  Dexter  by  her  side  to  give  her,  in  the 
eyes  of  all  men,  his  proud  protection  and  respect." 

Anne's  face  responded  to  the  warm  earnestness  of 
these  words:  she  had  never  felt  herself  so  powerfully 
drawn  toward  him  as  at  that  moment. 

"  As  to  love,  Anne,"  he  continued,  his  voice  softening, 
* '  do  not  fancy  that  I  am  feigning  anything  when  I  say 
that  I  do  love  you.  The  feeling  has  grown  up  uncon 
sciously.  I  shall  love  you  very  dearly  when  you  are  my 
wife;  you  could  command  me,  child,  to  almost  any  ex 
tent.  As  for  your  feeling  toward  me — marry  me,  and 
I  will  make  you  love  me."  He  drew  her  toward  him. 
"  I  am  not  too  old,  too  old  for  you,  am  I  ?"  he  said,  gently. 

"  It  is  not  that, "  she  answered,  in  deep  distress.  ' '  Oh, 
why,  why  have  you  said  this  ?" 

"Well,  because  I  am  fond  of  you,  I  suppose,"  said 
Dexter,  smiling.  He  thought  she  was  yielding. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  breaking  from  him. 
' '  You  are  generous  and  kind,  the  best  friend  I  have  ever 
bad,  and  it  is  for  that  reason,  if  for  no  other,  that  I  would 
never  wrcmg  you  by  marrying  you,  because — " 

"Because?"  repeated  Dexter. 

"  Because  I -still  love  him." 

"Heathcote?" 

"Yes." 

His  face  changed  sharply,  yet  he  continued  his  urging. 
"Even  if  you  do  love  him,  you  would  not  marry  him 
now." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"You  would  not  marry  him  with  poor  Helen's  blood 
between  you  ?" 

"  It  is  not  between  us.     He  is  innocent." 

"But  if,  after  escaping  conviction,  it  should  yet  be 


476  ANNE. 

made  clear  to  you— perhaps  to  you  alone— that  he  was 
guilty,  then  would  you  marry  him?" 

* '  No.  But  the  very  greatness  of  his  crime  would  make 
him  in  a  certain  way  sacred  to  me  on  account  of  the  ter 
rible  remorse  and  anguish  he  would  have  to  endure." 

"A  good  way  to  punish  criminals,"  said  Dexter,  bitter 
ly.  ' '  To  give  them  your  love  and  your  life,  and  make 
them  happy." 

"He  would  not  be  happy ;  he  would  be  a  wretched  man 
through  every  moment  of  his  life,  and  die  a  wretched 
death.  Whatever  forgiveness  might  come  in  another 
world,  there  would  be  none  in  this.  Helen  herself  would 
wish  me  to  be  his  friend." 

"For  the  ultra-refinement  of  self-deception,  give  me  a 
woman,"  said  J)exter,  with  even  deepened  bitterness. 

"But  why  do  we  wraste  time  and  words ?"  continued 
Anne.  Then  seeing  him  take  up  his  hat  and  turn  toward 
the  door,  she  ran  to  him  and  seized  his  arm.  ' '  You  are 
not  going?"  she  cried,  abandoning  the  subject  with  a 
quick,  burning  anxiety  which  told  more  than  all  the  rest. 
"Will  you  not  take  me,  as  you  promised,  to  Multomah  ?" 

"You  still  ask  me  to  take  you  there ?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"What  do  you  think  a  man  is  made  of?"  he  said, 
throwing  down  his  hat,  but  leaving  her,  and  walking 
across  to  the  window. 

Anne  followed  him.  "  Mr.  Dexter,"  she  said,  standing 
behind  him,  shrinkingly,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her, 
' '  would  you  wish  me  to  marry  you  when  I  love — love 
him,  as  I  said,  in  those  words  which  you-«kave  read,  and 
— even  more  ?"  Her  face  was  crimson,  her  voice  broken, 
her  hands  were  clasped  so  tightly  that  the  red  marks  of  the 
pressure  were  visible. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Her  face  told  even  more 
than  her  words.  All  his  anger  faded ;  it  seemed  to  him 
then  that  he  was  the  most  unfortunate  man  in  the  whole 
world.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  sadly. 
"I  yield,  child,"  he  said.  "Think  of  it  no  more.  But, 
oh,  Anne,  Anne,  if  it  could  but  have  been !  Why  does  he 
have  everything,  and  I  nothing?"  He  bowed  his  head 


ANNE.  477 

over  hers  as  it  lay  on  his  breast,  and  stood  a  moment ; 
then  he  released  her,  went  to  the  door,  and  breathed  the 
outside  air  in  silence. 

Closing  it,  he- turned  and  came  toward  her  again,  and 
in  quite  another  tone  said,  ' '  Are  you  ready  ?  If  you  are, 
we  will  go  to  the  city,  and  start  as  soon  as  possible  for 
Multomah." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity: 
The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see :  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheeks  flame:. .  .  .the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes  ;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared :  but  she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up." — TENNYSON. 

GREGORY  DEXTER  kept  his  word.  He  telegraphed  to 
Miss  Teller  and  to  Miss  Teller's  lawyers.  He  thought  of 
everything,  even  recalling  to  Anne's  mind  that  she  ought 
to  write  to  her  pupils  and  to  the  leader  of  the  choir,  tell 
ing  them  that  she  expected  to  be  absent  from  the  city 
for  several  days.  "It  would  be  best  to  resign  all  the 
places  at  once,"  he  said.  "After  this  is  over,  they  can 
easily  come  back  to  you  if  they  wish  to  do  so." 

' '  It  may  make  a  difference,  then,  in  my  position  ?"  said 
Anne. 

' '  It  will  make  the  difference  that  you  will  no  longer 
be  an  unknown  personage,"  he  answered,  briefly. 

His  dispatch  had  produced  a  profound  sensation  of 
wonder  in  the  mind  of  Miss  Teller,  and  excitement  in  the 
minds  of  Miss  Teller's  lawyers.  Helen's  aunt,  so  far,  had 
not  been  able  to  form  a  conjecture  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  mysterious  young  girl  who  had  visited  her  niece,  and 
borne  part  in  that  remarkable  conversation;  Bagshot's 
description  brought  no  image  before  her  mind.  The  ac 
quaintance  with  Anne  Douglas,  the  school-girl  at  Madame 
Moreau's,  was  such  a  short,  unimportant,  and  now  dis' 


478  .  ANNE. 

tant  episode  in  the  brilliant,  crowded  life  of  her  niece  that 
she  had  forgotten  it,  or  at  least  never  thought  of  it  in  this 
connection.  She  had  never  heard  Helen  call  Anne 
"Crystal/'  Her  imagination  was  fixed  upon  a  girl  of 
the  lower  class,  beautiful,  and  perhaps  in  her  way  even 
respectable — "one  of  those  fancies  which,"  she  acknow 
ledged,  "gentlemen  sometimes  have,"  the  tears  gather 
ing  in  her  pale  eyes  as  she  spoke,  so  repugnant  was  the 
idea  to  her,  although  she  tried  to  accept  it  for  Heathcote's 
sake.  But  how  could  Helen  have  known  a  girl  of  this 
sort  ?  Was  this,  too,  one  of  those  concealed  trials  which 
wives  of  "men  of  the  world"  were  obliged  to  endure  ? 

Neither  did  Isabel  or  Rachel  think  of  Anne.  To  them 
she  had  been  but  a  school-girl,  and  they  had  not  seen  her 
or  heard  of  her  since  that  summer  at  Caryl's;  she  had 
passed  out  of  their  remembrance  as  entirely  as  out  of 
their  vision.  Their  idea  of  Helen's  unknown  visitor  was 
similar  to  that  which  occupied  the  mind  of  Miss  Teller. 
And  in  their  hearts  they  had  speculated  upon  the  possi 
bility  of  using  money  with  such  a  person,  inducing  her  to 
come  forward,  name  herself,  and  deny  Bagshot's  testi 
mony  point-blank,  or  at  least  the  dangerous  portions  of  it. 
It  could  not  matter  much  to  a  girl  of  that  sort  what  she 
had  to  say,  provided  she  were  well  paid  for  it. 

Miss  Teller  and  the  lawyers  were  waiting  to  receive 
Anne,  when,  late  in  the  evening,  she  arrived,  accompa 
nied  by  Mr.  Dexter.  The  lawyers  had  to  give  way  first 
to  Miss  Teller. 

"Oh,  Anne,  dear  child!"  she  cried,  embracing  the 
young  girl  warmly ;  "I  never  dreamed  it  wras  you.  And 
you  have  come  all  this  way  to  help  us  !  I  do  not  in  the 
least  understand  how;  but  never  mind— never  mind. 
God  bless  you !"  She  sobbed  as  she  spoke.  Then  seeing 
Dexter,  who  was  standing  at  some  distance,  she  called  him 
to  her,  and  blessed  him  also.  He  received  her  greeting  in 
silence.  He  had  brought  Anne,  but  he  was  in  no  mood 
to  appreciate  benedictions. 

And  now  the  lawyers  stepped  forward,  arranging 
chairs  at  the  table  in  a  suggestive  way,  opening  papers, 
and  consulting  note-books.  Anne  looked  toward  Dexter 


479 

for  directions ;  his  eyes  told  her  to  seat  herself  in  one  of  the 
arm-chairs.  He  then  withdrew  to  another  part  of  the 
large  room,  and  Miss  Teller,  having  vainly  endeavored 
to  heckon  him  to  her  side,  so  that  he  might  be  within  reach 
of  her  tearful  whispers  and  sympathy-seeking  finger,  re 
signed  herself  to  excited  listening  and  silence. 

When  Anne  Douglas  appeared  on  the  witness-stand  in 
the  Heathcote  murder  trial,  a  buzz  of-curiosity  and  sur 
prise  ran  round  the  crowded  court-room. 

' '  A  young  girl !"  was  the  first  whisper.  Then,  ' '  Pretty, 
rather,"  from  the  women,  and  "Beautiful !"  from  the  men. 

Isabel  grasped  Rachel's  arm.  ' '  Is  that  Anne  Douglas  ?" 
she  said,  in  a  wonder-struck  voice.  "You  remember 
her — the  sch'ool-girl,  Miss  Vanhorn's  niece,  who  was  at 
Caryl's  that  summer  ?  Helen  always  liked  her  ;  and 
Ward  Heathcote  used  to  talk  to  her  now  and  then,  al 
though  Mr.  Dexter  paid  her  more  real  attention." 

"I  remember  her," said  Rachel,  coldly;  "but  I  do  not 
recollect  the  other  circumstances  you  mention." 

"  It  is  Anne,"  continued  Isabel,  too  much  absorbed  to 
notice  Rachel's  manner.  "But  older,  and  a  thousand 
times  handsomer.  Rachel,  that  girl  is  beautiful !" 

Anne's  eyes  were  downcast.  She  feared  to  see  Heath 
cote,  and  she  did  not  even  know  in  what  part  of  the 
room  he  was  placed.  She  remained  thus  while  she  was 
identified  by  Bagshot  and  Simpson,  while  she  gave  her 
name,  and  went  through  the  preliminary  forms ;  when  at 
last  she  did  raise  her  eyes,  she  looked  only  at  the  lawyers 
who  addressed  her. 

And  now  the  ordeal  opened.  All,  or  almost  all,  of  that 
which  she  had  told  Gregory  Dexter  she  was  now  required 
to  repeat  here,  before  this  crowded,  listening  court-room, 
this  sea  of  faces,  these  watching  lawyers,  the  judge,  and 
the  dreaded  jury.  She  had  never  been  in  a  court-room 
before.  For  one  moment,  when  she  first  looked  up,  her 
courage  failed,  and  those  who  were  watching  her  saw 
that  it  had  failed.  Then  toward  whom  did  her  frighten 
ed  glance  turn  as  if  for  aid  ? 

"Rachel,  it  is  Gregory  Dexter,"  said  Isabel,  again 
grasping  her  companion's  arm  excitedly. 


480  ANNE. 

"Pray,  Isabel,  be  more  quiet, "answered  Mrs.  Bannert. 
But  her  own  heart  throbbed  quickly  for  a  moment  as  she 
recognized  the  man  who  had  told  her  what  he  thought  of 
her  plainly  in  crude  and  plebeian  Saxon  phraseology. 

Anne  was  now  speaking.  Bagshot's  testimony  was 
read  to  her  phrase  by  phrase.  Phrase  by  phrase  she  cor 
roborated  its  truthfulness,  but  added  what  had  preceded 
and  followed.  IK  this  manner  all  the  overheard  sen 
tences  were  repeated  amid  close  attention,  the  interest  in 
creasing  with  every  word. 

But  still  it  was  evident  that  all  were  waiting ;  the  at 
titude  was  plainly  one  of  alert  expectancy. 

For  what  were  they  waiting  ?  For  the  confession  of 
love,  to  whose  "  extraordinary  words"  the  New  York 
journals  had  called  attention. 

At  last  it  came.  An  old  lawyer  read  the  sentences 
aloud,  slowly,  markedly;  while  the  fall  of  a  feather  could 
have  been  heard  in  the  crowded  room,  and  all  eyes  were 
fastened  pitilessly  upon  the  defenseless  girl ;  for  she  seem 
ed  at  that  moment  utterly  forsaken  and  defenseless. 

"  '  You  say  that  I  can  not  love,'  "  slowly  read  the  law 
yer,  in  his  clear,  dry  voice ;  "  '  that  it  is  not  in  my  nature. 
You  know  nothing  about  it.  You  have  thought  me  a 
child;  I  am  a  child  no  longer.  I  love  Ward  Heathcote, 
your  husband,  with  my  whole  heart.  It  was  a  delight  to 
me  simply  to  be  near  him,  to  hear  his  voice.  When  he 
spoke  my  name,  all  my  being  went  toward  him.  I  loved 
him — loved  him — so  deeply  that  everything  else  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  is  as  nothing  to  me  compared  with  it.  I 
would  have  been  gladly  your  servant,  yes,  yours,  only  to 
be  in  the  same  house  with  him,  though  I  were  of  no 
more  account  in  his  eyes  than  the  dog  on  the  mat  before 
his  door.'" 

There  was  an  instant  of  dead  silence  after  these  last  pas 
sionate  words  had  fallen  strangely  from  the  old  lawyer's 
thin  lips.  Then,  "Are  these  your  words?"  he  asked. 

"They  are,"  replied  Anne. 

In  that  supreme  moment  her  glance,  vaguely  turned 
away  from  the  questioner,  met  the  direct  gaze  of  the  pris 
oner.  Until  now  she  had  not  seen  him.  It  was  but  an 


ANNE.  481 

instant  that  their  eyes  held  each  other,  but  in  that  instant 
the  thronged  court-room  faded  from  her  sight,  and  her 
face,  which,  while  the  lawyer  read,  had  been  white  and 
still  as  marble,  was  now,  though  still  colorless,  so  transfig 
ured,  so  uplifted,  so  beautiful  in  its  pure  sacrifice,  that 
men  leaned  forward  to  see  her  more  closely,  to  print,  as  it 
were,  that  exquisite  image  upon  their  memories  forever. 

Then  the  crowd  took  its  breath  again  audibly ;  the  sight 
was  over.  Anne  had  sunk  down  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  Miss  Teller,  much  agitated,  was  send 
ing  her  a  glass  of  water. 

Even  the  law  is  human  sometimes,  and  there  was  now 
a  short  delay. 

So  far,  while  the  testimony  of  the  new  witness  had 
been  dramatic,  and  in  its  interest  absorbing,  it  had  not 
proved  much,  or  shaken  to  any  great  extent  the  theory 
of  the  prosecution.  Oil  the  contrary,  more  than  ever  now 
were  people  inclined  to  believe  that  this  lovely  young 
girl  was  in  reality  the  wife's  rival.  Men  whispered  to 
each  other,  significantly,  ' '  Heathcote  knew  what  he  was 
about.  That  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life;  and  nothing  can  alter  that." 

But  now  the  tide  turned.  The  examination  proceeded, 
and  the  two  unfinished  sentences  which  Bagshot  had  re 
peated  were  read.  Anne  corrected  them. 

'  You  can  not  conquer  hate,'  "  read  the  lawyer. 

"Mrs.  Heathcote  did  not  say  that, "began  Anne;  but 
her  voice  was  still  tremulous,  and  she  paused  a  moment  in 
order  to  control  it. 

"We  wish  to  remark  here,"  said  one  of  Miss  Teller's 
lawyers,  "  that  while  the  witness  named  Minerva  Bagshot 
is  possessed  of  an  extraordinary  memory,  and  while  s-he 
has  also  repeated  what  she  overheard  with  a  correctness 
and  honesty  which  are  indeed  remarkable  in  a  person 
who  would  deliberately  open  a  door  and  listen,  in  this  in 
stance  her  careful  and  conscientious  ears  will  be  found  to 
have  been  mistaken." 

He  was  not  allowed  to  say  more.  But  as  he  had  said 
all  he  wished  to  say,  he  bore  his  enforced  silence  with 
equanimity. 

31 


482  ANNE. 

"Mrs.  Heathcote  wished  me  to  come  and  live  with  her," 
continued  Anne.  ' '  She  said,  not  what  Mrs.  Bagshot  has 
reported,  but,  '  You  can  not  conquer  fate."1  And  then  she 
added,  '  We  two  must  be  together,  Anne ;  we  are  bound 
by  a  tie  which  can  not  be  severed,  even  though  we  may 
wish  it.  You  must  bear  with  me,  and  I  must  suffer  you. 
It  is  our  fate.'" 

This  produced  an  effect ;  it  directly  contradicted  the  im 
pression  made  by  Bagshot's  phrase,  namely,  that  the  two 
women  had  parted  in  anger  and  hate,  the  wife  especially 
being  in  a  mood  of  desperation.  True,  it  was  but  Anne's 
word  against  Bagshot's,  and  the  strange  tendency  toward 
believing  the  worst,  which  is  often  seen  at  criminal  trials, 
inclined  most  minds  toward  the  elder  woman's  story. 
Still,  the  lawyers  for  the  defense  were  hopeful. 

The  last  sentence,  or  portion  of  a  sentence,  was  now 
read :  "  '  If  he  had  lived,  one  of  us  must  have  died.'  " 

It  had  been  decided  that  Anne  should  here  give  all  that 
Helen  had  said,  without  omission,  as  she  had  given  it  to 
Dexter. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "Mrs.  Heathcote  used  those 
words.  But  it  was  in  the  following  connection.  When 
we  had  said  good-by,  and  I  had  promised  to  come  again 
after  the  funeral,  she  went  with  me  toward  the  door. 
'If  he  had  lived, 'she  said,  'one  of  us  must  have  died.' 
Then  she  paused  an  instant,  and  her  voice  sank.  '  Changed 
or  died,'  she  added.  '  And  as  we  are  not  the  kind  of  wo 
men  who  change,  it  would  have  ended  in  the  wearing  out 
of  the  life  of  one  of  us — the  one  who  loved  the  most. 
And  people  would  have  called  it  by  some  other  name,  and 
that  would  have  been  the  end.  But  now  it  is  he  who  has 
been  taken,  and — oh !  I  can  not  bear  it — I  can  not,  can 
not  bear  it!'" 

She  repeated  these  words  of  Helen's  with  such  realistic 
power  that  tears  came  to  many  eyes.  Rachel  Bannert  for 
the  first  time  veiled  her  face.  All  the  feeling  in  her,  such 
as  it  was,  was  concentrated  upon  Heathcote,  and  Helen's 
bitter  cry  of  grief,  repeated  by  Anne,  had  been  the  secret 
cry  of  her  own  heart  every  minute  since  danger  first 
menaced  him. 


ANNE.  483 

Anne's  words  had  produced  a  sensation;  still,  they 
were  but  her  unsupported  words. 

But  now  something  else  was  brought  forward;  proof 
which,  so  far  as  it  went,  at  least,  was  tangible.  Anne  was 
testifying  that,  before  she  went  away,  Helen  had  taken 
from  her  own  neck  a  locket  and  given  it  to  her  as  a 
token  of  renewed  affection ;  and  the  locket  was  produced. 
The  defense  would  prove  by  Bagshot  herself  that  this  lock 
et  on  its  chain  was  round  her  mistress's  neck  on  the  morn 
ing  of  that  day,  and  Mrs.  Heathcote  must  therefore  have 
removed  it  herself  and  given  it  to  the  present  witness, 
since  the  latter  could  hardly  have  taken  it  from  her  by 
force  without  being  overheard,  the  door  being  so  very 
conveniently  ajar. 

And  now  the  next  proof  was  produced,  the  hurried  note 
written  to  Anne  by  Helen,  after  the  tidings  of  her  hus 
band's  safety  had  been  received.  After  the  writing  had 
been  identified  as  Helen's,  the  note  was  read. 

"DEAR  ANNE, — Ward  is  safe.  It  was  a  mistake.  I 
have  just  received  a  dispatch.  He  is  wounded,  but  not 
dangerously,  and  I  write  this  on  my  way  to  the  train,  for 
I  am  going  to  him ;  that  is,  if  I  can  get  through.  All  is 
different  now.  I  trust  you.  But  I  love  him  too  much 
not  to  try  and  make  him  love  me  the  most,  if  I  possi 
bly  can.  HELEN." 

This  was  evidence  clear  and  decided.  It  was  no  longer 
Anne's  word,  but  Helen's  own.  Whatever  else  the  list 
eners  continued  to  believe,  they  must  give  up  the  idea 
that  the  wife  and  this  young  girl  had  parted  in  anger  and 
hate ;  for  if  the  locket  as  proof  could  be  evaded,  the  note 
could  not. 

But  this  was  not  all.  An  excitement  more  marked 
than  any  save  that  produced  when  Anne  acknowledged 
the  confession  arose  in  the  court-room  when  the  lawyers 
for  the  defense  announced  that  they  would  now  bring  for 
ward  a  second  letter — a  letter  written  by  Mrs.  Heathcote 
to  the  witness  in  the  inn  at  Timloesville  on  the  evening 
of  her  death— her  last  letter,  what  might  be  called  her 


484  ANNE. 

last  utterance  on  earth.  It  had  been  shown  that  Mrs. 
Heathcote  was  seen  writing ;  it  would  be  proved  that  a 
letter  was  given  to  a  colored  lad  employed  in  the  hotel 
soon  after  Captain  Heathcote  left  the  room,  and  that  this 
lad  ran  across  the  street  to  the  post-office  and  dropped  it 
into  the  mail-box.  Not  being  able  to  read,  he  had  not 
made  out  the  address. 

When  the  handwriting  of  this  letter  also  had  been 
identified,  it  was,  amid  eager  attention,  read  aloud.  The 
feeling  was  as  if  the  dead  wife  herself  were  speaking  to 
them  from  the  grave. 

"  TIMLOESVILLE,  June  10,  half  past  8  P.M. 

"  DEAR  ANNE, — I  sent  you  a  few  lines  from  New  York, 
written  on  my  way  to  the  train,  but  now  that  I  have  time, 
I  feel  that  something  more  is  due  to  you.  I  found  Ward 
at  a  little  hospital,  his  right  arm  injured,  but  not  serious 
ly.  He  will  not  be  able  to  use  it  readily  for  some  time ;  it 
is  in  a  sling.  But  he  is  so  much  better  that  they  have  al 
lowed  us  to  start  homeward.  We  are  travelling  slowly 
— more,  however,  on  my  account  than  his.  I  long  to  havo 
the  journey  over. 

"Dear  Anne,  I  have  thought  over  all  our  conversation 
— all  that  you  told  me,  all  that  I  replied.  I  am  so  inex 
pressibly  happy  to-night,  as  I  sit  here  writing,  that  I  can 
and  will  do  you  justice,  and  tell  all  the  truth — the  part 
that  I  have  hitherto  withheld.  And  that  is,- Anne,  that 
your  influence  over  him  was  for  good,  and  that  your  pain 
and  effort  have  not  been  thrown  away.  You  asked  him 
to  bear  his  part  in  life  bravely,  and  he  has  borne  it;  you 
asked  him  to  come  back  to  me,  and  he  did  come  back.  If 
you  were  any  other  woman  on  earth,  I  would  never  con 
fess  this — confess  that  I  owe  to  you  my  happiness  of  last 
winter,  when  he  changed,  even  in  his  letters,  to  greater 
kindness ;  confess  that  it  was  your  influence  which  made 
him,  when  he  came  home  later,  so  much  more  watchful 
and  gentle  in  his  care  of,  his  manner  toward,  me.  I  no 
ticed  the  change  on  the  first  instant,  the  first  letter,  and  it 
made  my  heart  bound.  If  it  had  been  possible,  I  should 
have  gone  to  him  then,  but  it  was  not.  He  had  rejoined 


ANNE.  485 

his  regiment,  and  I  could  only  watch  for  his  letters  like 
a  girl  of  sixteen.  When  he  did  come  home,  I  counted 
every  hour  of  that  short  visit  as  so  much  happiness  greater 
than  I  had  ever  known  before.  For  I  had  always  loved 
him,  and  now  he  loved  me. 

"  Do  not  contradict  me ;  he  does  love  me.  At  least  he 
is  so  dear  to  me,  and  so  kind  and  tender,  that  I  do  not 
know  whether  he  does  or  not,  but  am  content.  You  are 
a  better,  nobler  woman ;  yet  I  have  the  happiness. 

' '  He  does  not  know  that  I  have  seen  you,  and  I  shall 
never  tell  him.  He  does  not  know  that  /  know  what  an 
effort  he  has  made.  But  every  kind  act  and  tone  goes 
to  my  heart.  For  I  did  deceive  him,  Anne ;  and  if  it  had 
not  been  for  that  deception,  probably  he  would  not  now 
be  my  husband — he  would  be  free. 

"Yet  good  has  come  out  of  evil  this  time,  perhaps  on 
account  of  my  deep  love.  No  wife  was  ever  so  thankful 
ly  happy  as  I  am  to-night,  and  on  my  knees  I  have  thank 
ed  my  Creator  for  giving  me  that  which  makes  my  life 
one  long  joy. 

"He  has  come  in,  and  is  sitting  opposite,  reading.  He 
does  not  know  to  whom  I  am  writing — does  not  dream 
what  I  am  saying.  And  he  must  never  know:  I  can  not 
rise  to  that. 

"No,  Anne,  we  must  not  meet,  at  least  for  the  present. 
It  is  better  so,  and  you  yourself  will  feel  that  it  is.  But 
when  I  reach  home  I  will  write  again,  and  then  you  will 
answer. 

"  Always,  with  warm  love,  your  friend,       HELEN." 

During  the  reading  of  this  letter,  the  prisoner  for  the 
first  time  sat  with  his  head  bowed,  his  face  shaded  by  his 
hand.  Miss  Teller's  sobs  could  be  heard.  Amie,  too, 
broke  down,  and  wept  silently. 

"When  I  reach  home  I  will  write  again,  and  then  you 
will  answer."  Helen  had  reached  home,  and  Anne — had 
answered. 


486  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  The  cold  neutrality  of  an  impartial  judge." — BURKE. 

THE  jury  were  out. 

They  had  been  out  four  hours,  but  the  crowd  in  the 
closely  packed  court-room  still  kept  its  ranks  unbroken, 
and  even  seemed  to  grow  more  dense ;  for  if,  here  and 
there,  one  person  went  away,  two  from  the  waiting- 
throng  of  those  in  the  halls  and  about  the  doors  imme 
diately  pressed  their  way  in  to  take  the  vacant  place. 
The  long  warm  summer  day  was  draw  ing  toward  its  close. 
The  tired  people  fanned  themselves,  but  would  not  go, 
because  it  was  rumored  that  a  decision  was  near. 

Outside,  the  fair  green  farming  country,  which  came 
up  almost  to  the  doors,  stretched  away  peacefully  in  the 
twilight,  shading  into  the  grays  of  evening  down  the  val 
ley,  and  at  the  bases  of  the  hills.  The  fields  were  falling 
asleep;  eight  o'clock  sounding  from  a  distant  church  bell 
seemed  like  a  curfew  and  good-night. 

If  one  had  had  time  to  think  of  it,  the  picture  of  the 
crowded  court-room,  rising  in  that  peaceful  landscape, 
was  a  strange  one.  But  no  one  had  time  to  think  of  it. 
Lights  had  been  brought  in.  The  summer  beetles,  at 
tracted  by  them,  flew  in  through  the  open  windows, 
knocked  themselves  against  the  wall,  fell  to  the  floor,  and 
then  slowly  took  wing  again  to  repeat  the  process.  With 
the  coming  of  the  lights  the  crowd  stirred  a  little,  looked 
about,  and  then  settled  itself  anew.  The  prisoner's 
chances  were  canvassed  again,  and  for  the  hundredth 
time.  The  testimony  of  Anne  Douglas  had  destroyed  the 
theory  which  had  seemed  to  fill  out  so  well  the  missing 
parts  of  the  story;  it  had  proved  that  the  supposed  rival 
was  a  friend  of  the  wife's,  and  that  the  wife  loved  her; 
it  had  proved  that  Mrs.  Heathcote  was  devoted  to  her 
husband,  and  happy  with  him,  up  to  the  last  hour  of  her 
life.  This  was  much.  But  the  circumstantial  evidence 


ANNE.  487 

regarding  the  movements  of  the  prisoner  at  Timloesville 
remained  unchanged ;  he  was  still  confronted  by  the  fact 
of  his  having  been  seen  on  that  outside  stairway,  by  the 
other  significant  details,  and  by  the  print  of  that  left  hand. 

During  this  evening  waiting,  the  city  papers  had  come, 
were  brought  in,  and  read.  One  of  them  contained  some 
paragraphs  upon  a  point  which,  in  the  rapid  succession 
of  events  that  followed  each  other  in  the  case,  had  been 
partially  overlooked — a  point  which  the  country  readers 
cast  aside  as  unimportant,  but  which  wakened  in  the  minds 
of  the  city  people  present  the  remembrance  that  they  had 
needed  the  admonition. 

' '  But  if  this  conversation  (now  given  in  full)  was  re 
markable,"  wrote  the  editor  far  away  in  New  York,  "  it 
should  not  be  forgotten  that  the  circumstances  were  re 
markable  as  well.  While  reading  it  one  should  keep 
clearly  in  mind  the  fact  that  the  subject  of  it,  namely, 
Captain  Heathcote,  was,  in  the  belief  of  both  the  speak 
ers,  dead.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  belief  of  theirs,  these 
words  would  never  have  been  uttered.  He  was  gone 
from  earth  forever — killed  suddenly  in  battle.  Such  a 
death  brings  the  deepest  feelings  of  the  heart  to  the  surface. 
Such  a  death  wrings  out  avowals  which  otherwise  would 
never  be  made.  Words  can  be  spoken  over  a  coffin — 
where  all  is  ended — which  could  never  be  spoken  else 
where.  Death  brought  together  these  two  women,  who 
seem  to  have  loved  each  other  through  and  in  spite  of  all. 
One  has  gone.  And  now  the  menacing  shadow  of  a  far 
worse  death  has  forced  the  other  to  come  forward,  and  go 
through  a  cruel  ordeal,  an  ordeal  which  was,  however,  turn 
ed  into  a  triumph  by  the  instant  admiration  which  all 
rightly  minded  persons  gave  to  the  pure,  noble  bravery 
which  thus  saved  a  life.  For  although  the  verdict  has 
not  yet  been  given,  the  general  opinion  is  that  this  new 
testimony  turned  the  scale,  and  that  the  accused  man 
will  be  acquitted." 

But  this  prophecy  was  not  fulfilled. 

Five  hours  of  waiting.  Six  hours.  And  now  there 
came  a  stir.  The  jury  were  returning ;  they  had  entered ; 
they  were  in  their  places.  Rachel  Bannert  bent  her  face 


488  ANNE. 

behind  her  open  fan,  that  people  should  not  see  how  white 
it  was.  Miss  Teller  involuntarily  rose.  But  as  many 
had  also  risen  in  the  crowded  room,  which  was  not 
brightly  lighted  save  round  the  lawyers'  tables,  they  pass 
ed  unnoticed.  The  accused  looked  straight  into  the  faces 
of  the  jurors.  He  was  quite  calm ;  this  part  seemed  far 
less  trying  to  him  than  that  which  had  gone  before. 

And  then  it  was  told :  they  had  neither  convicted  nor 
acquitted  him.  They  had  disagreed. 

Anne  Douglas  was  not  present.  She  was  sitting  alone 
in  an  unlighted  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  coun 
try  square.  Some  one  walking  up  and  down  there,  imder 
the  maples,  had  noticed,  or  rather  divined,  a  figure  at  the 
open  window  behind  the  muslin  curtains  of  the  dark  room ; 
he  knew  that  this  figure  was  looking  at  the  lights  from 
the  court-room  opposite,  visible  through  the  trees. 

This  man  under  the  maples  had  no  more  intention  of 
losing  the  final  moment  than  the  most  persistent  country 
man  there.  But  being  in  the  habit  of  using  his  money, 
now  that  he  had  it,  rather  than  himself,  he  had  posted  two 
sentinels,  sharp-eyed  boys  whom  he  had  himself  selected, 
one  in  an  upper  window  of  the  court  -room  on  the  sill, 
the  other  outside  on  the  sloping  roof  of  a  one-story  build 
ing  which  touched  it.  The  boy  in  the  window  was  to 
keep  watch ;  the  boy  on  the  roof  was  to  drop  to  the  ground 
at  the  first  signal  from  the  sill,  and  run.  By  means  of 
this  human  telegraph,  its  designer  under  the  maples  in 
tended  to  reach  the  window  himself,  through  the  little 
house  whose  door  stood  open  (its  mistress  having  already 
been  paid  for  the  right  of  way),  in  time  to  hear  and  see 
the  whole.  This  intention  was  carried  out — as  his  inten 
tions  generally  were.  The  instant  the  verdict,  or  rather 
the  want  of  verdict,  was  announced,  he  left  the  window, 
hastened  down  through  the  little  house,  and  crossed  the 
square.  The  people  would  be  slow  in  leaving  the  court 
room,  the  stairway  was  narrow,  the  crowd  dense;  the 
square  was  empty  as  he  passed  through  it,  went  up  the 
steps  of  the  house  occupied  by  Miss  Teller,  crossed  the 
balcony,  and  stopped  at  the  open  window. 
"Anne  ?"  he  said. 


ANNE.  489 

A  figure  stirred  within. 

"  They  have  disagreed.  The  case  will  now  go  over  to 
the  November  term,  when  there  will  be  a  new  trial." 

He  could  see  that  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
But  she  did  not  speak. 

' '  It  was  your  testimony  that  turned  the  scale, "  he  added. 

After  a  moment,  as  she  still  remained  silent,  ' '  I  am  go 
ing  away  to-iiight,"  he  went  on;  "  that  is,  unless  there  is 
something  I  can  do  for  you.  Will  you  tell  me  your 
plans  ?" 

"Yes,  always,"  she  answered,  speaking  low  from  the 
darkness.  ' '  Everything  concern  ing  me  you  may  always 
know,  if  you  care  to  know.  But  so  far  I  have  no  plan." 

4 '  I  leave  you  with  Miss  Teller ;  that  is  safety.  Miss 
Teller  claims  the  privilege  now  of  having  you  with  her 
always." 

"  I  shall  not  stay  long." 

"You  will  write  to  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

People  were  now  entering  the  square  from  the  other 
side.  The  window-sill  was  between  them;  he  took  her 
hands,  drew  her  forward  from  the  shadow,  and  looked  at 
her  in  the  dim  light  from  the  street  lamp. 

"  It  is  my  last  look,  Anne,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"It  need  not  be." 

"Yes;  you  have  chosen.  You  are  sure  that  there  is 
nothing  more  that  I  can  do  ?" 

"There  is  one  thing." 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  Believe  him  innocent.  Believe  it,  not  for  my  sake, 
but  for  your  own." 

"  If  I  try,  it  will  be  for  yours.     Good-by." 

He  left  her,  and  an  hour  later  was  on  his  way  back  to 
his  post  at  the  capital  of  his  State.  He  was  needed  there ; 
an  accumulation  of  responsibilities  awaited  him.  For 
that  State  owed  the  excellence  of  its  wrar  record,  its  finely 
equipped  regiments,  well-supplied  hospitals,  and  prompt 
efficiency  in  all  departments  of  public  business  through 
out  those  four  years,  principally  to  the  brain  and  force  of 
one  man — Gregory  Dexter. 


490  ANNE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  I  have  no  other  than  a  woman's  reason : 
I  think  him  so  because  I  think  him  so." 

— SHAKSPEAHE. 

SUMMER  was  at  its  height.  Multomah  had  returned  to 
its  rural  quietude ;  the  farmers  were  busy  afield,  the  court 
room  was  closed,  the  crowd  gone.  The  interest  in  the 
Heathcote  case,  and  the  interest  in  Ward  Heathcote,  re 
mained  as  great  as  ever  in  the  small  circle  of  which  he 
and  Helen  had  formed  part ;  but  nothing  more  could  hap 
pen  until  November,  and  as,  in  the  mean  time,  the  sum 
mer  was  before  them,  they  had  found  a  diversion  of 
thought  in  discovering  an  island  off  the  coast  of  Maine, 
and  betaking  themselves  thither,  leaving  to  mistaken 
followers  the  belief  that  Caryl's  still  remained  an  exclu 
sive  and  fashionable  resort.  Beyond  this  small  circle, 
the  attention  of  the  nation  at  large  was  absorbed  in  a 
far  greater  story — the  story  of  the  Seven  Days  round 
Richmond. 

Word  had  come  to  Anne  from  the  northern  island  that 
the  little  boy,  whose  failing  health  had  for  so  many 
months  engrossed  all  Miss  Lois's  time  and  care,  had 
closed  his  tired  eyes  upon  this  world's  pain  forever.  He 
would  no  longer  need  the  little  crutch,  which  they  had 
both  grieved  to  think  must  always  be  his  support;  and 
Miss  Lois  coming  home  to  the  silent  church-house  after 
the  burial  in  the  little  cemetery  on  the  height,  and  seeing 
it  there  in  its  corner,  had  burst  into  bitter  tears.  For 
the  child,  in  his  helplessness  and  suffering,  had  grown 
into  her  very  heart.  But  now  Anne  needed  her — that 
other  child  whom  she  had  loved  so  long  and  so  well. 
And  so,  after  that  one  fit  of  weeping,  she  covered  her 
grief  from  sight,  put  a  weight  of  silent  remembrance  upon 
it,  and  with  much  energy  journeyed  southward. 

For  Anne,  Miss  Lois,  and  Miss  Teller  were  now  linked 


ANNE.  491 

together  by  a  purpose,  a  feminine  purpose,  founded  upon 
faith  only,  and  with  outlines  vague,  yet  one  none  the 
less  to  be  carried  out :  to  go  to  Timloesville  or  its  neigh 
borhood,  and  search  for  the  murderer  there. 

Miss  Teller,  who  had  found  occupation  in  various  small 
schemes  for  additions  to  Heathcote's  comfort  during  the 
summer,  rose  to  excitement  when  the  new  idea  was  pre 
sented  to  her. 

"We  must  have  advice  about  it,"  she  began;  "  we 
must  consult —  Then  seeing  in  the  young  face,  upon 
whose  expressions  she  had  already  come  to  rely,  a  non- 
agreement,  she  paused. 

"The  best  skill  of  detectives  has  already  been  used," 
said  Anne ;  ' '  they  followed  a  track,  worked  from  a  be 
ginning.  We  should  follow  no  track,  and  accept  no  be 
ginning,  save  the  immovable  certainty  that  he  was  in 
nocent."  She  was  silent  a  moment;  then  with  a  sigh 
which  was  a  sad,  yet  not  a  hopeless,  one,  "Dear  Miss 
Teller,"  she  added,  "it  is  said  that  women  divine  a  truth 
sometimes  by  intuition,  and  against  all  probability.  It 
is  to  this  instinct — if  such  there  be — that  we  must  trust 
now." 

Miss  Teller  studied  these  suggestions  with  respect ;  but 
they  seemed  large  and  indistinct.  In  spite  of  herself  her 
mind  reverted  to  certain  articles  of  furniture  which  she 
had  looked  at  the  day  before,  furniture  which  was  to  make 
his  narrow  room  more  comfortable.  But  she  caught  her 
self  in  these  wanderings,  brought  back  her  straying 
thoughts  promptly,  and  fastened  them  to  the  main  sub 
ject  with  a  question — like  a  pin. 

"  But  how  could  I  go  to  Timloesville  at  present,  when 
I  have  so  much  planned  out  to  do  here?  Oh,  Anne,  I 
could  not  leave  him  here,  shut  up  in  that  dreary  place." 

"It  seems  to  me  safer  that  you  should  not  go,"  re 
plied  the  girl;  "it  might  be  noticed,  especially  as  it  is 
known  that  you  took  this  house  for  the  summer.  But  I 
could  go.  And  there  is  Miss  Lois.  She  is  free  now,  and 
the  ch  urch-house  must  be  very  lonely. ' '  The  tears  sprang 
again  as  she  thought  of  Andre,  the  last  of  the  little  black- 
eyed  children  who  had  been  so  dear. 


492  ANNE. 

They  talked  over  the  plan.  No  man  being  there  to 
weigh  it  with  a  cooler  masculine  judgment,  it  seemed  to 
them  a  richly  promising  one.  Anne  was  imaginative, 
and  Miss  Teller  reflected  Anne.  They  both  felt,  how 
ever,  that  its  accomplishment  depended  upon  Miss  Lois. 
But  Anne's  confidence  in  Miss  Lois  was  great. 

' '  I  know  of  no  one  for  whom  I  have  a  deeper  respect 
than  for  that  remarkable  woman,"  said  Miss  Teller,  rev 
erentially.  "It  will  be  a  great  gratification  to  see  her.1' 

"But  it  would  be  best,  I  think,  that  she  should  not 
come  here,"  replied  Anne.  "I  should  bid  you  good-by, 
and  go  away ;  every  one  would  see  me  go.  Then  in  New 
York  I  could  meet  Miss  Lois,  and  we  could  go  together  to 
Timloesville  by  another  route.  At  Timloesville  nobody 
would  know  Miss  Lois,  and  I  should  keep  myself  in  a 
measure  concealed ;  there  were  only  a  few  persons  from 
Timloesville  at  the  trial,  and  I  think  I  could  evade  them." 

"  I  should  have  liked  much  to  meet  Miss  Hinsdale," 
said  Miss  Margaretta,  in  a  tone  of  regret.  ' '  But  you 
know  best." 

' '  Oh,  no,  no, "  said  Anne,  letting  her  arms  fall  in  sudden 
despondency.  ' '  I  sometimes  think  that  I  know  nothing, 
and  worse  than  nothing !  Moments  come  when  I  would 
give  years  of  my  life  for  one  hour,  only  one,  of  trusting 
reliance  upon  some  one  wiser,  stronger,  than  I — who 
would  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do." 

But  this  cry  of  the  young  heart  (brave,  but  yet  so  young) 
distressed  Miss  Margaretta.  If  the  pilot  should  lose  cour 
age,  what  would  become  of  the  passengers  ?  She  felt  her 
self  looking  into  chaos. 

Anne  saw  this.     And  controlled  herself  again. 

"  When  should  you  start  ?"  said  the  elder  lady,  relieved, 
and  bringing  forward  a  date.  Miss  Margaretta  always 
found  great  support  in  dates. 

"I  can  not  tell  yet.  We  must  first  hear  from  Miss 
Lois." 

"I  will  write  to  her  myself,"  said  Miss  Margaretta, 
putting  on  her  spectacles  and  setting  to  work  at  once.  It 
was  a  relief  to  be  engaged  upon  something  tangible. 

And  write  she  did.     The  pages  she  sent  to  Miss  Lois, 


ANNE.  493 

and  the  pages  with  which  Miss  Lois  replied  were  many, 
eloquent,  and  underlined.  Before  the  correspondence 
was  ended  they  had  scientifically  discovered,  convicted, 
and  hanged  the  murderer,  and  religiously  buried  him. 

Miss  Lois  was  the  most  devoted  partisan  the  accused 
man  had  gained.  She  was  pleader,  audience,  public  opin 
ion,  detective,  judge,  and  final  clergyman,  in  one.  .  She 
had  never  seen  Heathcote.  That  made  no  difference. 
She  was  sure  he  was  a  concentration  of  virtue,  and  the 
victim  not  of  circumstances  (that  was  far  too  mild),  but 
of  a  "plot"  (she  wanted  to  say  "  popish y"  but  was  re 
strained  by  her  regard  for  Pere  Michaux). 

Miss  Teller  saw  Heathcote  daily.  So  far,  she  had  not 
felt  it  necessary  that  Anne  should  accompany  her.  But 
shortly  before  the  time  fixed  for  the  young  girl's  depar 
ture  she  was  seized  with  the  idea  that  it  was  Anne's  duty 
to  see  him  once.  For  perhaps  he  could  tell  her  some 
thing  which  would  be  of  use  at  Timloesville. 

"I  would  rather  not;  it  is  not  necessary,"  replied 
Anne.  "  You  can  tell  me. " 

' '  You  should  not  think  of  yourself ;  in  such  cases  our 
selves  are  nothing,"  said  Miss  Teller.  "The  sheriff  and 
the  persons  in  charge  under  him  are  possessed  of  excellent 
dispositions,  as  I  have  had  occasion  to  prove;  no  one 
need  know  of  your  visit,  and  I  should  of  course  accom 
pany  you." 

Anne  heard  her  in  silence.  She  was  asking  herself 
whether  this  gentle  lady  had  lost  all  memory  of  her  own 
youth,  and  whether  that  youth  had  held  no  feelings  which 
would  make  her  comprehend  the  depth  of  that  which  she 
was  asking  now. 

But  Miss  Teller  was  not  thinking  of  her  youth,  or  of 
herself,  or  of  Anne.  She  had  but  one  thought,  one  mo 
tive — Helen's  husband,  and  how  to  save  him ;  all  the  rest 
seemed  to  her  unimportant.  She  had  in  fact  forgotten  it. 
"  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  hesitate,"  she  said,  the  tears 
suffusing  her  light  eyes,  ' '  when  it  is  for  our  dear  Helen's 
sake." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Anne;  "but  Helen  is  dead.  How  can 
•we  know — how  can  we  be  sure — what  she  would  wish  ?" 


494  ANNE. 

She  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  herself.  She  rose,  walked 
to  the  window,  and  stood  there  looking  out.  • 

1 '  She  would  wish  to  have  him  saved,  would  she  not  ?" 
answered  Miss  Teller.  "I  consider  it  quite  necessary 
that  you  should  see  him  before  you  go.  For  you  could 
not  depend  upon  my  report  of  what  he  says.  It  has,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  been  represented  to  me  more  than  once  that 
I  have  a  tendency  to  forget  what  has  been  variously  men 
tioned  as  the  knob,  the  point,  the  gist  of  a  thing." 

Anne  did  not  turn. 

Miss  Teller  noted  this  obstinacy  with  surprise. 

"It  is  mysterious  to  me  that  after  the  great  ordeal  of 
that  trial,  Anne,  you  should  demur  over  such  a  simple 
thing  as  this,"  she  said,  gently. 

But  to  Anne  the  sea  of  faces  in  the  court-room  seemed 
now  less  difficult  than  that  quiet  cell  with  its  one  occu 
pant.  Then  she  asked  herself  whether  this  were  not  an 
unworthy  feeling,  a  weak  one  ?  One  to  be  put  down  at 
once,  and  with  a  strong  hand.  She  yielded.  The  visit 
was  appointed  for  the  next  day. 

The  county  jail  with  its  stone  hall;  a  locked  door. 
They  were  entering ;  the  jailer  retired. 

The  prisoner  rose  to  receive  them ;  he  knew  that  they 
were  coming,  and  was  prepared.  Miss  Teller  kissed  him ; 
he  brought  forward  his  two  chairs.  Then  turning  to 
Anne,  he  said,  "It  is  kind  of  you  to  come;"  and  for  a 
moment  they  looked  at  each  other. 

It  was  as  if  they  had  met  in  another  world,  in  a  far 
gray  land  beyond  all  human  error  and  human  dread. 
Anne  felt  this  suddenly;  if  not  like  a  chill,  it  was  like 
the  touch  of  an  all-enveloping  sadness,  which  would  not 
pass  away.  Her  fear  left  her ;  it  seemed  to  her  then  that 
it  would  never  come  back. 

As  she  looked  at  him  she  saw  that  he  was  greatly 
changed;  her  one  glance  in  the  court-room  had  not  told 
her  how  greatly.  Part  of  it  was  due  doubtless  to  the  ef 
fects  of  his  wound,  to  the  unaccustomed  confinement  in 
the  heats  of  a  lowland  summer;  his  face,  though  still 
bronzed,  was  thin,  his  clothes  hung  loosely  from  his 
broad  shoulders.  But  the  marked  alteration  was  in  his 


ANNE.  495 

expression.  This  was  so  widely  different  from  that  of 
the  brown-eyed  lounger  of  Caryl's,  that  it  seemed  an 
other  man  who  was  standing  there,  and  not  the  same. 
Heathcote's  eyes  were  still  brown ;  but  their  look  was  so 
changed  that  Gregory  Dexter  would  never  have  occasion 
to  find  fault  with  it  again.  His  half -indolent  carelessness 
had  given  place  to  a  stern  reticence ;  his  indifference,  to 
a  measured  self-control.  And  Anne  knew,  as  though  a 
prophetic  vision  were  passing,  that  he  would  carry  that 
changed  face  always,  to  his  life's  end. 

Miss  Teller  had  related  to  him  their  plan,  their  womans' 
plan.  He  was  strongly,  unyieldingly,  opposed  to  it. 
Miss  Teller  came  home  every  day,  won  over  to  his  view, 
and  then  as  regularly  changed  her  mind,  in  talking  with 
Anne,  and  went  back — to  be  converted  over  again.  But 
he  knew  that  Anne  had  persisted.  He  knew  that  he  was 
now  expected  to  search  his  memory,  and  see  if  he  could 
not  find  there  something  new.  Miss  Teller,  with  a  touch 
ing  eagerness  to  be  of  use  and  business-like,  arranged  pen, 
paper,  and  ink  upon  the  table,  and  sat  down  to  take  notes. 
She  was  still  a  majestic  personage,  in  spite  of  her  grief 
and  anxiety;  her  height,  profile,  and  flowing  draperies 
were  as  imposing  as  ever.  But  in  other  ways  she  had 
grown  suddenly  old ;  her  light  complexion  was  now  over 
spread  with  a  net-work  of  fine  small  wrinkles,  the  last 
faint  blonde  of  her  hair  was  silvered,  and  in  her  cheeks 
and  about  her  mouth  there  was  a  pathetic  alteration,  the 
final  predominance  of  old  age,  and  its  ineffective  helpless 
ness  over  her  own  mild  personality. 

But  while  they  waited,  he  found  that  he  could  not 
speak.  When  he  saw  them  sitting  there  in  their  mourn 
ing  garb  for  Helen,  when  he  felt  that  Anne  too  was 
within  the  circle  of  this  grief  and  danger  and  pain,  Anne, 
in  all  her  pure  fair  youth  and  trust  and  courage,  some 
thing  rose  in  his  throat  and  stopped  utterance.  All  the 
past  and  his  own  part  in  it  unrolled  itself  before  him 
like  a  judgment ;  all  the  present,  and  her  brave  effort  for 
him ;  the  future,  near  and  dark.  For  Heathcote,  like 
Dexter,  believed  that  the  chances  were  adverse ;  and  even 
should  he  escape  conviction,  he  believed  that  the  cloud 


496  ANNE. 

upon  him  would  never  be  cleared  away  entirely,  but  that 
it  would  rest  like  a  pall  over  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
At  that  moment,  in  his  suffering",  he  felt  that  uncleared 
acquittal,  conviction,  the  worst  that  could  come  to  him, 
he  could  bear  without  a  murmur  were  it  only  possible  to 
separate  Anne — Anne  both  in  the  past  and  present — from 
his  own  dark  lot.  He  rose  suddenly  from  the  bench 
where  he  had  seated  himself,  turned  his  back  to  them, 
went  to  his  little  grated  window,  and  stood  there  looking 
out. 

Miss  Teller  followed  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "Dear  Ward,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  wonder 
that  you  are  overcome."  And  she  took  out  her  hand 
kerchief. 

He  mastered  himself  and  came  back  to  the  table.  Miss 
Teller,  who,  having  once  begun,  was  unable  to  stop  so 
quickly,  remained  where  she  was.  Anne,  to  break  the 
painful  pause,  began  to  ask  her  written  questions  from  the 
slip  of  paper  she  had  brought. 

"Can  you  recall  anything  concerning  the  man  who 
came  by  and  spoke  to  you  while  you  were  bathing  ?"  she 
said,  looking  at  him  gravely. 

"  No.     I  could  not  see  him;  it  was  very  dark." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"He  asked  if  the  water  was  cold." 

"How  did  he  say  it?" 

"Simply,  ' Is  the  water  cold ?' " 

"Was  there  any  foreign  accent  or  tone,  any  peculi 
arity  of  pronunciation  or  trace  of  dialect,  no  matter  how 
slight,  in  his  voice  or  utterance  ?" 

"  I  do  not  recall  any.  Stay,  he  may  have  given  some 
thing  of  the  sound  of  g  to  the  word — said  '  gold,'  instead 
of  '  cold. '  But  the  variation  was  scarcely  noticeable. 
Country  people  talk  in  all  sorts  of  ways." 

Miss  Teller  hurriedly  returned  to  her  chair,  after  wip 
ing  her  eyes,  wrote  down  "gold"  and  "cold"  in  large  let 
ters  on  her  sheet  of  paper,  and  surveyed  them  critically. 

"Is  there  nothing  else  you  can  think  of?"  pursued 
Anne. 

' '  No.     Why  do  you  dwell  upon  him  ?" 


ANNE.  497 

"  Because  he  is  the  man." 

"Oh,  Anne,  is  he? — is  he?"  cried  Miss  Teller,  with  as 
much  excitement  as  though  Anne  had  proved  it. 

"There  is  no  probability,,  They  have  not  even  been 
able  to  find  him,"  said  Heatheote. 

"Of  course  it  is  only  my  feeling,"  said  the  girl. 

"But  what  Anne  feels  is  no  child's  play,"  commented 
Miss  Teller. 

This  remark,  made  in  nervousness  and  without  much 
meaning,  seemed  to  touch  Heathcote;  he  turned  to  the 
window  again. 

' '  Will  you  please  describe  to  me  exactly  what  you  did 
from  the  time  you  left  the  inn  to  take  the  first  walk  until 
you  came  back  after  the  river-bath  ?"  continued  Anne. 

He  repeated  his  account  of  the  evening's  events  as  he 
had  first  given  it,  with  hardly  the  variation  of  a  word. 

' '  Are  you  sure  that  you  took  two  towels  ?  Might  it 
not  be  possible  that  you  took  only  one  ?  For  then  the 
second,  found  at  the  end  of  the  meadow  trail,  might  have 
been  taken  by  the  murderer." 

"No  ;  I  took  two.  I  remember  it  because  I  put  first 
one  in  my  pocket,  and  then,  with  some  difficulty,  the  oth 
er,  and  I  spoke  to  Helen  laughingly  about  my  left-hand 
ed  awkwardness."  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken 
his  wife's  name,  and  his  voice  was  very  grave  and  sweet 
as  he  pronounced  it. 

Poor  Miss  Teller  broke  down  again.  And  Anne  began 
to  see  her  little  paper  of  questions  through  a  blur.  But 
the  look  of  Heathcote's  face  saved  her.  Why  should  he 
have  anything  more  to  bear  ?  She  went  on  quickly  with 
her  inquiry. 

"Was  there  much  money  in  the  purse?" 

' '  I  think  not.  She  gave  me  almost  all  she  had  brought 
with  her  as  soon  as  we  met." 

"  Is  it  a  large  river  ?" 

"Eather  deep;  in  breadth  only  a  mill-stream." 

Then  there  was  a  silence.  It  seemed  as  if  they  all  felt 
how  little  there  was  to  work  with,  to  hope  for. 

"Will  you  let  Miss  Teller  draw  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
the  outline  of  your  left  hand  ?"  continued  Anne. 


498  ANNE. 

He  obeyed  without  comment. 

"Now  please  place  your  hand  in  this  position,  and  let 
her  draw  the  finger-tips."  As  she  spoke,  she  extended 
her  own  left  hand,  with  the  finger-tips  touching  the  ta 
ble,  as  if  she  was  going  to  grasp  something  which  lay  un 
derneath. 

But  Heathcote  drew  back.  A  flush  rose  in  his  cheeks. 
"I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Ward,  when  Anne  asks  you  ?"  said  Miss  Teller,  in 
distress. 

,  "/do  not  wish  her  to  go  to  Timloesville, "  he  said, 
with  emphasis;  "  I  have  been  utterly  against  it  from  the 
first.  It  is  a  plan  made  without  reason,  and  directly 
against  my  feelings,  my  wishes,  and  my  consent.  It  is 
unnecessary.  It  will  be  useless.  And,  worse  than  this, 
it  may  bring  her  into  great  trouble.  Send  as  many  de 
tectives  as  you  please,  but  do  not  send  her.  It  is  the  mis 
fortune  of  your  position  and  hers  that  at  such  a  moment 
you  have  no  one  to  control  you,  no  man,  I  mean,  to 
whose  better  judgment  you  would  defer.  My  wishes  are 
nothing  to  you;  you  override  them.  You  are,  in  fact, 
taking  advantage  of  my  helplessness." 

He  spoke  to  Miss  Teller.  But  Anne,  flushing  a  little 
at  his  tone,  answered  him. 

"I  can  not  explain  the  hope  that  is  in  me,"  she  said; 
"but  such  a  hope  I  certainly  have.  I  will  not  be  impru 
dent  ;  Miss  Lois  shall  do  everything;  I  will  be  very  guard 
ed.  If  we  are  not  suspected  (and  we  shall  not  be ;  women 
are  clever  in  such  things),  where  is  the  danger  ?  It  will 
be  but — but  spending  a  few  weeks  in  the  country."  She 
ended  hesitatingly,  ineffectively.  Then,  "To  sit  still  and 
do  nothing,  to  wait — is  unendurable!"  broke  from  her  in 
a  changed  tone.  "  It  is  useless  to  oppose  me.  I  shall  go. " 

Heathcote  did  not  reply. 

' '  No  one  is  to  know  of  it,  dear  Ward,  save  ourselves 
and  Miss  Hinsdale,"  said  Miss  Teller,  pleadingly. 

"And  Mr.  Dexter,"  added  Anne. 

Heathcote  now  looked  at  her.  "  Dexter  has  done  more 
for  me  than  I  could  have  expected, "he  said.  "I  never 
knew  him  well ;  I  fancied,  too,  that  he  did  not  like  me." 


HE   OBEYED   WITHOUT   COMMENT.' 


ANNE.  499 

"  Oh,  there  you  are  quite  mistaken,  Ward.  He  is  your 
most  devoted  friend,"  said  Miss  Teller. 

But  a  change  in  Anne's  face  had  struck  Heathcote. 
"  He  thinks  me  guilty,"  he  said. 

"Never!  never!"  cried  Miss  Teller.  "Tell  him  no, 
Anne.  Tell  him  no." 

But  Anne  could  not.  "He  said — "  she  began ;  then  re 
membering  that  Dexter's  words,  "  If  I  try,  it  will  be  for 
yours,"  were  hardly  a  promise,  she  stopped. 

"  It  is  of  small  consequence.  Those  who  could  believe 
me  guilty  may  continue  to  believe  it,"  said  Heathcote. 
But  his  face  showed  that  he  felt  the  sting. 

He  had  never  cared  to  be  liked  by  all,  or  even  by  many ; 
but  when  the  blow  fell  it  had  been  an  overwhelming 
surprise  to  him  that  any  one,  even  the  dullest  farm  labor 
er,  should  suppose,  it  possible  that  he,  Ward  Heathcote, 
could  be  guilty  of  such  a  deed. 

It  was  the  lesson  which  careless  men,  such  as  he  had 
been,  learn  sometimes  if  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
direct  homely  judgment  of  the  plain  people  of  the  land. 

"Oh,  Anne,  how  can  you  have  him  for  your  friend? 
And  I,  who  trusted  him  so!"  said  Miss  Teller,  with  indig 
nant  grief. 

' '  As  Mr.  Heathcote  has  said,  it  is  of  small  consequence, " 
answered  Anne,  steadily.  ' '  Mr.  Dexter  brought  me  here, 
in  spite  of  his — his  feeling,  and  that  should  be  more  to  his 
credit,  I  think,  than  as  though  he  had  been — one  of  us. 
And  now,  Miss  Teller,  if  there  is  nothing  more  to  learn,  I 
should  like  to  go." 

She  rose.  Heathcote  made  a  motion  as  if  to  detain  her, 
then  his  hand  fell,  and  he  rose  also. 

"I  suppose  we  can  stay  until  Jason  Loiigworthy 
knocks  ?"  said  Miss  Margaretta,  hesitatingly. 

"  I  would  rather  go  now,  please,"  said  Anne. 

For  a  slow  tremor  was  taking  possession  of  her;  the 
country  prison,  wrhich  had  not  before  had  a  dangerous 
look,  seemed  now  to  be  growing  dark  and  cruel ;  the  iron- 
barred  window  was  like  a  menace.  It  seemed  to  say  that 
they  might  talk ;  but  that  the  prisoner  was  theirs. 

Miss  Margaretta  rose,  disappointed  but  obedient;   she 


500    '  ANNE. 

bade  Heathcote  good-by,  and  said  that  she  would  come 
again  011  the  morrow. 

Then  he  stepped  forward.  ' '  I  shall  not  see  you  again, " 
he  said  to  Anne,  holding  out  his  hand.  He  had  not  of 
fered  to  take  her  hand  before. 

She  gave  him  hers,  and  he  held  it  for  a  moment.  No 
word  was  spcrken;  it  was  a  mute  farewell.  Then  she 
passed  out,  followed  by  Miss  Teller,  and  the  door  was 
closed  behind  them. 

"Why,  you  had  twenty  minutes  more,"  said  Jason 
Longworthy,  the  deputy,  keeping  watch  in  the  hall  out 
side. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"  The  fisherman,  unassisted  by  destiny,  could  not  catch  a  fish  in  the 
Tigris ;  and  the  fish,  without  fate,  could  not  have  died  upon  dry  land." 
— SAADI. 

ANNE  met  Miss  Lois  in  New  York.  Miss  Lois  had  never 
been  in  New  York  before ;  but  it  would  take  more  than 
New  York  to  confuse  Miss  Lois.  They  remained  in  the 
city  for  several  days  in  order  to  rest  and  arrange  their 
plans.  There  was  still  much  to  explain  which  the  letters, 
voluminous  as  they  had  been,  had  not  made  entirely  clear. 

But  first  they  spoke  of  the  child.  It  was  Miss  Lois  at 
length  who  turned  resolutely  from  the  subject,  and  took 
up  the  tangled  coil  which  awaited  her.  ' '  Begin  at  the 
beginning  and  tell  every  word,"  she  said,  sitting  erect  in 
her  chair,  her  arms  folded  with  tight  compactness.  If 
Miss  Lois  could  talk,  she  could  also  listen.  In  the  present 
case  she  listened  comprehensively,  sharply,  and  under- 
standingly.  When  all  was  told — "How  different  it  is 
from  the  old  days  when  we  believed  that  you  and  Rast 
would  live  always  with  us  on  the  island,  and  that  that 
would  be  the  whole,"  she  said,  with  a  long,  sad  retrospect 
ive  sigh.  Then  dismissing  the  past,  "But  we  must  do 
in  this  disappointing  world  what  is  set  before  us, "-she 
added,  sighing  again,  but  this  time  in  a  preparatory  way. 
Anew  she  surveyed  Anne.  "You  are  much  changed, 


ANNE.  501 

child,"  she  said.  Something  of  her  old  spirit  returned  to 
her.  "I  wish  those  fort  ladies  could  see  you  now /"  she 
remarked,  taking  off  her  spectacles  and  wiping  them  with 
a  combative  air. 

Possessed  of  Anne's  narrative,  she  now  hegan  to  ar 
range  their  plans  in  accordance  with  it,  and  to  fit  what  she 
considered  the  necessities  of  the  situation.  As  a  stand 
point  she  prepared  a  history,  which,  in  its  completeness, 
<^ould  have  satisfied  even  herself  as  third  person,  forget 
ting  that  the  mental  organizations  of  the  Timloesville  peo 
ple  were  probably  not  so  well  developed  in  the  direction  of 
a  conscientious  and  public-spirited  inquiry  into  the  affairs 
of  their  neighbors  as  were  those  of  the  meritorious  New 
England  community  where  she  had  spent  her  youth.  In 
this  history  they  were  to  be  aunt  and  niece,  of  the  same 
name,  which,  after  long  cogitation,  she  decided  should  be 
Young,  because  it  had  ' '  a  plain,  respectable  sound. "  She 
herself  was  to  be  a  widow  (could  it  have  been  possible  that, 
for  once  in  her  life,  she  wished  to  know,  even  if  but  remin- 
iscently,  how  the  married  state  would  feel  ?),  and  Anne 
was  to  be  her  husband's  niece.  ' '  Which  will  account 
for  the  lack  of  resemblance,"  she  said,  fitting  all  the  parts 
of  her  plan  together  like  those  of  a  puzzle.  She  had  even 
constructed  an  elaborate  legend  concerning  said  husband, 
and  its  items  she  enumerated  with  relish.  His  name,  it 
appeared,  had  been  Asher,  and  he  had  been  something  of 
a  trial  to  her,  although  at  the  last  he  had  experienced  re 
ligion,  and  died  thoroughly  saved.  His  brother  Eleazer, 
Anne's  father,  had  been  a  very  different  person,  a  sort  of 
New  England  David.  He  had  taught  in  an  academy, 
studied  for  the  ministry,  and  died  of  "a  galloping  con 
sumption" — a  consolation  to  all  his  friends.  Miss  Lois 
could  describe  in  detail  both  of  these  death-beds,  and 
repeat  the  inscriptions  on  the  two  tombstones.  Her 
own  name  was  Deborah,  and  Anne's  was  Ruth.  On 
the  second  day  she  evolved-the  additional  item  that  Ruth 
was  ' '  worn  out  keeping  the  accounts  of  an  Asylum  for  the 
Aged,  in  Washington — which  is  the  farthest  thing  I  can 
think  of  from  teaching  children  in  New  York — and  I  have 
brought  you  into  the  country  for  your  health." 


502  ANNE. 

Anne  was  dismayed.  * '  I  shall  certainly  make  some 
mistake  in  all  this, "she  said. 

' '  Not  if  you  pay  attention.  And  you  can  always  say 
your  head  aches  if  you  don't  want  to  talk.  I  am  not 
sure  but  that  you  had  better  be  threatened  with  some 
thing  serious, "  added  Miss  Lois,  surveying  her  companion 
consideringly.  ' '  It  would  have  to  be  connected  with  the 
mind,  because,  unfortunately,  you  always  look  the  picture 
of  health." 

"  Oh,  please  let  me  be  myself,"  pleaded  Anne. 

' '  Never  in  the  world, "  replied  Miss  Lois.  ' '  Ourselves  ? 
No  indeed.  We've  got  to  be  conundrums  as  well  as  guess 
them,  Euth  Young." 

They  arrived  at  their  destination,  not  by  the  train,  but  in 
the  little  country  stage  which  came  from  the  south.  The 
witnesses  from  Timloesville  present  at  the  trial  had  been 
persons  connected  with  the  hotel.  In  order  that  Anne 
should  not  come  under  their  observation,  they  took  lodg 
ings  at  a  farm-house  at  some  distance  from  the  village,  and 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley.  Anne  was  not  to  en 
ter  the  village ;  but  of  the  meadow-paths  and  woods  she 
would  have  free  range,  as  the  inhabitants  of  Timloesville, 
like  most  country  people,  had  not  a  high  opinion  of  pedes 
trian  exercise.  Anne  was  not  to  enter  the  town  at  all ; 
but  Miss  Lois  was  to  examine  "its  every  inch." 

The  first  day  passed  safely,  and  the  second  and  third. 
Anne  was  now  sufficiently  accustomed  to  her  new  name 
not  to  start  when  she  was  addressed,  and  sufficiently  in 
structed  in  her  "headaches"  not  to  repudiate  them  when 
inquiries  were  made ;  Miss  Lois  announced,  therefore,  that 
the  search  could  begin.  She  classified  the  probabilities 
under  five  heads. 

First.     The  man  must  be  left-handed. 

Second.     He  must  say  "gold"  for  "cold." 

Third.  As  Timloesville  was  a  secluded  village  to  which 
few  strangers  came,  and  as  it  had  been  expressly  stated  at 
the  trial  that  no  strangers  were  noticed  in  its  vicinity  either 
before  or  after  the  murder,  the  deed  had  evidently  been 
committed,  not  as  the  prosecution  mole-blindedly  averred, 
by  the  one  stranger  who  ivas  there,  but  by  110  stranger 


ANNE.  503 

at  all — by  a  resident  in  the  village  itself  or  its  neighbor 
hood. 

Fourth.  As  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heathcote  was 
unexpected,  the  crime  must  have  been  one  of  impulse : 
there  had  not  been  time  for  a  plan. 

Fifth.  The  motive  was  robbery :  the  murder  was  proba 
bly  a  second  thought,  occasioned,  perhaps,  by  Helen's  stir 
ring. 

Miss  Lois  did  not  waste  time.  Within  a  few  days  she  was 
widely  known  in  Timloesville— "  the  widow  Young,  from 
Washington,  staying  at  Farmer  Black  well's,  with  her 
niece,  who  is  out  of  health,  poor  thing,  and  her  aunt  so 
anxious  about  her."  The  widow  was  very  affable,  very 
talkative ;  she  was  considered  an  a  most  excitingly  agree 
able  person.  But  it  was  strange  that  she  should  not 
have  heard  of  their  event,  their  own  particular  and  now 
celebrated  crime.  Mrs.  Strain,  wife  of  J.  Strain,  Esq., 
felt  that  this  ignorance  was  lamentable.  She  therefore 
proposed  to  the  widow  that  she  should  in  person  go  to  the 
Timloe  Hotel,  and  see  with  her  own  eyes  "the  very 
spot." 

"The effect,  Mrs.  Young,  is  curdling,"  she  declared. 

Mrs.  Young  was  willing  to  be  curdled,  if  Mrs.  Straia 
would  support  her  in  the  experience.  On  the  next  after 
noon,  therefore,  they  went  to  the  Timloe  Hotel,  and.  were 
shown  over  "  the  very  floor"  which  had  been  pressed  by 
the  footsteps  of  the  murderer,  his  beautiful  wife,  and  her 
highly  respectable  and  observing  (one  might  almost  say 
providentially  observing1)  maid.  The  landlord  himself, 
Mr.  Graub,  did  not  disdain  to  accompany  them.  Mr. 
Graub  had  attended  the  trial  in  person,  and  he  had  hard 
ly  ceased  since  to  admire  himself  for  his  own  perspicuous 
cleverness  in  owning  the  house  where  such  a  very  distin 
guished  crime  had.  been  committed.  There  might  be 
localities  where  a  like  deed  would  have  injured  the  pa 
tronage  of  an  inn ;  but  the  neighborhood  of  Timloesville 
was  not  one  of  them.  The  people  slowly  took  in  and  ap 
preciated  their  event,  as  an  anaconda  is  said  slowly  to  take 
in  and  appreciate  his  dinner-,  they  digested  it  at  their  lei 
sure.  Farmers  coming  in  to  town  on  Saturdays,  instead 


504  ANNE. 

of  bringing-  luncheon  in  a  tin  pail,  as  usual,  went  to  the 
expense  of  dining-  at  the  hotel,  with  their  wives  and 
daughters,  in  order  to  see  the  room,  the  blind,  and  the 
outside  stairway.  Mr.  Graub,  in  this  position  of  affairs, 
was  willing  to  repeat  the  tale,  even  to  a  non-diner.  For 
Mrs.  Young  was  a  stranger  from  Washington,  and  who 
knew  but  that  Washington  itself  might  be  stirred  to  a 
dining  interest  in  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  especially  as 
the  second  trial  was  still  to  come  ? 

The  impression  on  the  blind  was  displayed ;  it  was  very 
faint,  but  clearly  that  of  a  left  hand. 

"And  here  is  the  cloth  that  covered  the  bureau,"  con 
tinued  the  landlord,  taking  it  from  a  paper  and  spread 
ing  it  on  the  old-fashioned  chest  of  drawers.  "It  is 
not  the  identical  cloth,  for  that  was  required  at  the 
trial,  together  with  a  fac-simile  of  the  blind;  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  this  one  is  just  like  the  original,  blue-bor 
dered  and  fringed  precisely  the  same,  and  we  traced  the 
spots  on  it  exactly  similar  before  we  let  the  other  go. 
For  we  knew  that  folks  would  naturally  be  interested  in 
such  a  memento." 

"It  is  indeed  deeply  absorbing,"  said  Mrs.  Young.  ' '  I 
wonder,  now,  what  the  size  of  that  hand  might  be  ?  Not 
yours,  Mr.  Graub ;  yours  is  a  very  small  hand.  Let  me 
compare.  Suppose  I  place  my  fingers  so  (I  will  not  touch 
it).  Yes,  a  large  hand,  without  doubt,  and  a  left  hand. 
Do  you  know  of  any  left-handed  persons  about  here  ?" 

"Why,  the  man  himself  was  left-handed, "  answered  the 
landlord  and  Mrs.  Strain  together — "Captain  Heathcote 
himself." 

"He  had  been  wounded,  and  carried  his  right  arm  in 
a  sling,"  added  Mr.  Graub. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  widow ;  "  I  remember  now.  Was 
this  impression  measured  ?" 

"Yes;  I  have  the  exact  figures, "  replied  the  landlord, 
taking  out  a  note-book,  and  reading  the  items  aloud  in  a 
slow,  important  voice. 

"Did  you  measure  it  yourself?"  asked  the  widow. 
"Because  if  you  did  it,  I  shall  feel  sure  the  figures  are 
correct." 


ANNE.  505 

"I  did  not  measure  it  myself,"  answered  Mr.  Graub, 
not  unimpressed  by  this  confidence.  "I  can,  however, 
re-measure  it  in  a  moment  if  it  would  be  any  gratification 
to  you." 

' '  It  would  be — immense, "  said  the  widow.  Whereupon 
he  went  down  stairs  for  a  measure. 

' '  I  am  subject  to  dizziness  myself,  but  I  must  hear  some 
one  come  up  that  outside  stairway,"  said  Mrs.  Young  to 
Mrs.  Strain  during  his  absence.  "  Would  you  do  it  for 
me  ?  I  want  to  imagine  the  tvhole." 

Mrs.  J.  Strain,  though  stout,  consented ;  and  when  her 
highly  decorated  bonnet  was  out  of  sight,  the  visitor  swift 
ly  drew  from  her  pocket  the  paper  outline  of  Heathcote's 
hand  which  Anne  had  given  her,  and  compared  it  with 
the  impression.  The  outlines  seemed  different ;  the  hand 
which  had  touched  the  cloth  appeared  to  have  been 
shorter  and  wider  than  Heathcote's,  the  finger-tips  broad 
er,  as  though  cushioned  with  flesh  underneath.  Mrs. 
Strain's  substantial  step  was  now  heard  on  the  outside 
stairway.  But  the  pattern  was  already  safely  returned 
to  the  deep  pocket  of  Mrs.  Young. 

"  I  have  been  picturing  the  entire  scene,"  she  said,  in 
an  impressive  whisper  when  the  bonnet  re-appeared,  "and 
I  assure  you  that  when  I  heard  your  footsteps  011  those 
stairs,  goose-flesh  rose  and  ran  like  lightning  down  my 
spine."  And  Mrs.  Strain,  though  out  of  breath,  consid 
ered  that  her  services  had  been  well  repaid. 

Mr.  Graub  now  returned,  and  measured  the  prints  with 
the  nicest  accuracy.  Owing  to  the  widow's  compliment 
to  his  hands,  he  had  stopped  to  wash  them,  in  order  to  give 
a  finer  effect  to  the  operation.  Mrs.  Young  requested 
that  the  figures  be  written  down  for  her  on  a  slip  of 
paper,  "as  a  memorial";  and  then,  with  one  more  ex 
haustive  look  at  the  room,  the  stairway,  and  the  garden, 
she  went  away,  accompanied  by  her  friend,  leaving  Mr. 
Graub  more  than  ever  convinced  that  he  was  a  very  un 
usual  man, 

Mrs.  Strain  was  easily  induced  to  finish  the  afternoon's 
dissipations  by  goir.g  through  the  grass  meadow  by  the 
side  of  the  track  made  by  the  murderer  on  his  way  to  the 


506  ANNE. 

river.  They  walked  "by  the  side,"  because  the  track  it 
self  was  railed  off.  So  many  persons  had  visited  the 
meadow  that  Mr.  Graub  had  been  obliged  to  protect  his 
relic  in  order  to  preserve  its  identity,  and  even  existence. 
The  little  trail  was  now  conspicuous  by  the  fringing  of 
tall  grass  which  still  stood  erect  on  each  side  of  it,  the 
remainder  of  the  meadow  having  been  trodden  flat. 

"It  ends  at  the  river,"  said  Mrs.  Young,  reflectively. 

"  Yes,  where  he  came  to  wash  his  hands,  after  the  deed 
was  done,"  responded  Mrs.  Strain.  "And  what  his  vi 
sions  and  inward  thoughts  must  have  been  at  sech  a  mo 
ment  I  leave  you,  Mrs.  Young,  solemnly  to  consider." 

Mrs.  Young  then  returned  homeward,  after  thanking 
her  Timloesville  friend  for  a  "most  impressive  day." 

"The  outlines  are  too  indistinct  to  be  really  of  much 
use,  Ruth,"  she  said,  as  she  removed  her  bonnet.  "I  be 
lieve  it  was  so  stated  at  the  trial,  wasn't  it  ?  But  if  I 
have  eyes,  they  do  not  fit." 

' '  Of  course  not,  since  it  is  the  hand  of  another  person, " 
replied  Anne.  ' '  But  did  you  notice,  or  rather  could  you 
see,  what  the  variations  were  ?" 

' '  A  broader  palm,  I  should  say,  and  the  fingers  short 
er.  The  only  point,  however,  which  I  could  make  out 
with  certainty  was  the  thick  cushion  of  flesh  at  the  ends 
of  the  fingers;  that  seemed  clear  enough." 

At  sunset  they  went  across  the  fields  together  to  the 
point  on  the  river-bank  where  the  meadow  trail  ended. 

"The  river  knows  all,  "said  Anne,  looking  wistfully 
at  the  smooth  water. 

"  They  think  so  too,  for  they've  dragged  it  a  number 
of  times,"  responded  Miss  Lois.  "All  the  boys  in  the 
neighborhood  have  been  diving  here  ever  since,  I  am 
told ;  they  fancy  the  purse,  watch,  and  rings  are  in  the 
mud  at  the  bottom.  But  they're  safe  enough  in  some 
body's  pocket,  you  may  be  sure." 

"Miss  Lois,"  said  the  girl,  suddenly,  "perhaps  he  went 
away  in  a  boat !" 

"My  name  is  Deborah — Aunt  Deborah;  and  I  do 
wish,  Ruth,  you  would  not  forget  it  so  constantly.  In 
a  boat  ?  Well,  perhaps  he  did.  But  I  don't  see  how 


ANNE.  507 

that  helps  it.  To-morrow  is  market-day,  and  I  must  go 
in  to  the  village  and  look  out  for  left-handed  men ;  they 
won't  escape  me  though  they  fairly  dance  jigs  on  their 
right!" 

"He  went  away  in  a  boat,"  repeated  Anne,  as  they 
walked  homeward  through  the  dusky  fields. 

But  the  man  was  no  nearer  or  plainer  because  she  had 
taken  him  from  the  main  road  and  placed  him  on  the 
river;  he  seemed,  indeed,  more  distant  and  shadowy  than 
before. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"The  burnished  dragon-fly  is  thine  attendant, 

And  tilts  against  the  field, 
And  down  the  listed  sunbeam  rides  resplendent, 
With  steel-blue  mail  and  shield." 

— LONGFELLOW. 

Miss  Lois  came  home  excited.  She  had  seen  a  left- 
handed  man.  True,  he  was  a  well-known  farmer  of  the 
neighborhood,  a  jovial  man,  apparently  frank  and  hon 
est  as  the  daylight.  But  there  was  no  height  of  impossi 
bility  impossible  to  Miss  Lois  when  she  was  on  a  quest. 
She  announced  her  intention  of  going  to  his  farm  on  the 
morrow  under  the  pretext  of  looking  at  his  peonies,  which, 
she  had  been  told,  were  remarkably  fine,  ' '  for  of  course 
I  made  inquiries  immediately,  in  order  to  discover  the 
prominent  points,  if  there  were  any.  If  it  had  been 
onions,  I  should  have  been  deeply  interested  in  them  just 
the  same." 

Anne,  obliged  for  the  present  to  let  Miss  Lois  make  the 
tentative  efforts,  listened  apathetically  ;  then  she  men 
tioned  her  wish  to  row  on  the  river. 

"Better  stay  at  home," said  Miss  Lois.  "Then  I  shall 
know  you  are  safe." 

"But  I  should  like  to  go,  if  merely  for  the  air,"  replied 
Anne.  "My  head  throbs  as  I  sit  here  through  the  long 


508  ANNE. 

hours.  It  is  not  that  I  expect  to  accomplish  anything5, 
though  I  confess  I  am  haunted  by  the  river,  but  the  mo- 
tioii  and  fresh  air  would  perhaps  keep  me  from  thinking 
so  constantly." 

"I  am  a  savage,"  said  Miss  Lois,  "and  you  shall  go 
where  you  please.  The  truth  is,  Euth,  that  while  I  am 
pursuing  this  matter  with  my  mental  faculties,  you  are 
pursuing  it  with  the  inmost  fibres  of  your  heart."  (The 
sentence  was  mixed,  but  the  feeling  sincere.)  "I  will  go 
down  this  very  moment,  and  begin  an  arrangement  about 
a  boat  for  you." 

She  kept  her  word.  Anne,  sitting  by  the  window, 
heard  her  narrating  to  Mrs.  Blackwell  a  long  chain  of 
reasons  to  explain  the  fancy  of  her  niece  Ruth  for  row 
ing.  "  She  inherits  it  from  her  mother,  poor  child,"  said 
the  widow,  with  the  sigh  which  she  always  gave  to  the 
memory  of  her  departed  relatives.  ' '  Her  mother  was  the 
daughter-  of  a  light-house  keeper,  and  lived,  one  might  say, 
afloat.  Little  Ruthie,  as  a  baby,  used  to  play  boat ;  her 
very  baby-talk  was  full  of  sailor  words.  You  haven't 
any  kind  of  a  row-boat  she  could  use,  have  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Blackwell  replied  that  they  had  not,  but  that  a 
neighbor  farther  down  the  river  owned  a  skiff  which 
might  be  borrowed. 

"Borrow  it,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Young.  "They  will 
lend  it  to  you,  of  course,  in  a  friendly  way,  and  then  we 
can  pay  you  something  for  the  use  of  it." 

This  thrifty  arrangement,  of  which  Mrs.  Blackwell  un 
aided  would  never  have  thought,  was  carried  into  effect, 
and  early  the  next  morning  the  skiff  floated  at  the  foot  of 
the  meadow,  tied  to  an  overhanging  branch. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Young,  in  the  farm  wagon,  ac 
companied  by  her  hostess,  and  her  hostess's  little  son  as 
driver,  set  off  for  John  Cole's  farm,  to  see,  in  Mrs.  Black- 
well's  language,  "the  pynies."  A  little  later  Anne  was 
in  the  skiff,  rowing  up  the  river.  She  had  not  had  oars 
in  her  hands  since  she  left  the  island. 

She  rowed  on  for  an  hour,  through  the  green  fields, 
then  through  the  woods.  Long-legged  flies  skated  on  the 
still  surface  of  the  water,  insects  with  gauzy  wings  floated 


ANNE.  509 

to  and  fro.  A  dragon-fly  with  steel-blue  mail  lighted  on 
the  edge  of  the  boat.  The  burnished  little  creature  seem 
ed  attracted.  He  would  not  leave  her,  but  even  when 
he  took  flight  floated  near  by  on  his  filmy  wings,  timing 
his  advance  with  hers.  With  one  of  those  vague  im 
pulses  by  which  women  often  select  the  merest  chance 
to  decide  their  actions,  Anne  said  to  herself,  "  J  will  row  on 
until  I  lose  sight  of  him. "  Turning  the  skiff,  she  took  one 
oar  for  a  paddle,  and  followed  the  dragon-fly.  He  flew  on 
now  more  steadily,  selecting  the  middle  of  the  stream. 
No  doubt  he  had  a  dragon-fly's  motives ;  perhaps  he  was 
going  home ;  but  whether  he  was  or  not,  he  led  Anne's 
boat  onward  until  the  river  grew  suddenly  narrower,  and 
entered  a  ravine.  Here,  where  the  long  boughs  touched 
leaf-tips  over  her  head,  and  everything  was  still  and 
green,  she  lost  him.  The  sun  was  sinking  toward  the 
western  horizon  line ;  it  was  time  to  return  ;  but  she  said 
to  herself  that  she  would  come  again  on  the  morrow,  and 
explore  this  cool  glen  to  which  her  gauzy-winged  guide 
had  brought  her.  When  she  reached  home  she  found 
Miss  Lois  there,  and  in  a  state  of  profound  discomfiture. 
"The  man  was  left-handed  enough,"  she  said,  "but,  come 
to  look  at  him,  he  hadn't  any  little  finger  at  all :  chopped 
off  by  mistake  when  a  boy.  Now  the  little  finger  in  the 
impression  is  the  most  distinct  part  of  the  whole;  and  so 
we've  lost  a  day,  and  the  price  of  the  wagon  thrown  in,  not 
to  speak  of  enough  talking  about  peonies  to  last  a  life 
time  !  There's  a  fair  to-morrow,  and  of  course  I  must  go : 
more  left  hands  :  although  now,  I  confess,  they  swim 
round  me  in  a  cloud  of  vexation  and  peonies,  which 
makes  me  never  want  to  lay  eyes  on  one  of  them  again ;" 
and  she  gave  a  groan,  ending  in  a  long  yawn.  However, 
the  next  morning,  with  patience  and  energies  renewed  by 
sleep,  she  rose  early,  like  a  phoenix  from  her  ashes,  and 
accompanied  Mrs.  Blackwell  to  the  fair.  Anne,  again  in 
her  skiff,  went  up  the  river.  She  rowed  to  the  glen 
where  she  had  lost  the  dragon-fly.  Here  she  rested  on 
her  oars  a  moment.  The  river  still  haunted  her.  "He 
went  away  in  a  boat,"  had  not  been  out  of  her  mind  since 
it  first  came  to  her.  "  He  went  away  in  a  boat,"  she 


510  ANNE. 

thought  again.  "Would  he,  then,  have  rowed  up  01 
down  the  stream  ?  If  he  had  wished  to  escape  from  the 
neighborhood,  he  would  have  rowed  down  to  the  larger 
river  below.  He  would  not  have  rowed  up  stream  unless 
he  lived  somewhere  in  this  region,  and  was  simply  going 
home,  because  there  is  no  main  road  in  this  direction,  no 
railway,  nothing  but  farms  which  touch  each  other  for 
miles  round.  Now,  as  I  believe  he  was  not  a  stranger, 
but  a  resident,  I  will  suppose  that  he  went  up  stream,  and  I 
will  follow  him."  She  took  up  her  oars  and  rowed  on. 

The  stream  grew  still  narrower.  She  had  been  rowing 
a  long  time,  and  knew  that  she  must  be  far  from  home. 
Nothing  broke  the  green  solitude  of  the  shore  until  at 
last  she  came  suddenly  upon  a  little  board  house,  hardly 
more  than  a  shanty,  standing  near  the  water,  with  the 
forest  behind.  She  started  as  she  saw  it,  and  a  chill  ran 
over  her.  And  yet  what  was  it  ?  Only  a  little  board 
house. 

She  rowed  past ;  it  seemed  empty  and  silent.  She  turn 
ed  the  skiff,  came  back,  and  gathering  her  courage,  land 
ed,  and  timidly  tried  the  door;  it  was  locked.  She  went 
round  and  looked  through  the  window.  There  was  no 
one  within,  but  there  were  signs  of  habitation — some  com 
mon  furniture,  a  gun,  and  on  the  wall  a  gaudy  picture  of 
the  Virgin  and  the  Holy  Child.  She  scrutinized  the  place 
with  eyes  that  noted  even  the  mark  of  muddy  boots  on 
the  floor  and  the  gray  ashes  from  a  pipe  on  the  table. 
Then  suddenly  she  felt  herself  seized  with  fear.  If  the 
owner  of  the  cabin,  should  steal  up  behind  her,  and  ask  her 
what  she  was  doing  there !  She  looked  over  her  shoulder 
fearfully.  But  no  one  was  visible,  no  one  was  coming 
up  or  down  the  river;  her  own  boat  was  the  only  thing 
that  moved,  swaying  to  and  fro  where  she  had  left  it  tied 
to  a  tree  trunk.  With  the  vague  terror  still  haunting 
her,  she  hastened  to  the  skiff,  pushed  off,  and  paddled 
SAviftly  away.  But  during  the  long  voyage  homeward 
the  fear  did  not  entirely  die  away.  "  I  am  growing  fool 
ishly  nervous,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  weary  sigh. 

Miss  Lois  had  discovered  no  left-handed  men  at  the  fair ; 
but  she  had  seen  a  person  whom  she  considered  suspicious 


ANNE.  5U 

— a  person  who  sold  medicines.  "  He  was  middle-sized," 
she  said  to  Anne,  in  the  low  tone  they  used  when  with 
in  the  house,  ' '  and  he  had  a  down  look — a  thing  I  never 
could  abide.  He  spoke,  too,  in  an  odd  voice.  I  suspected 
him  as  soon  as  I  laid  my  eyes  upon  him,  and  so  just 
took  up  a  station  near  him,  and  watched.  He  wasn't 
left-handed  exactly,"  she  added,  as  though  he  might  have 
been  so  endowed  inexactly;  "but  he  is  capable  of  any 
thing — left-handed,  web-footed,  or  whatever  you  please. 
After  taking  a  good  long  look  at  him,  I  went  round 
and  made  (of  course  by  chance,  and  accidentally)  some 
inquiries.  Nobody  seemed  to  know  much  about  him  ex 
cept  that  his  name  is  Juder  (and  highly  appropriate  in  my 
opinion),  and  he  came  to  the  fair  the  day  before  with  his  lit 
tle  hand-cart  of  medicines,  and  went  out  again,  into  the 
country  somewhere,  at  sunset.  Do  you  mark  the  signifi 
cance  of  that,  Ruth  Young  ?  He  did  not  stay  at  the  Tim- 
loe  hotel  (prices  reduced  for  the  fair,  and  very  reasonable 
beds  011  the  floor),  like  the  other  traders;  but  though  the 
fair  is  to  be  continued  over  to-morrow,  and  he  is  to  be 
there,  he  took  all  the  trouble  to  go  out  of  town  for  the 
night." 

"Perhaps  he  had  no  money,"  said  Anne,  abstractedly. 

"I  saw  him  with  my  own  eyes  take  in  dollars  and  dol 
lars.  Singular  that  when  country  people  will  buy  nothing 
else,  they  will  buy  patent  medicines.  No :  the  man  knows 
something  of  that  murder,  and  could  not  stay  at  that  ho 
tel,  Ruth  Young.  And  that's  my  theory." 

In  her  turn  Anne  now  related  the  history  of  the  day, 
and  the  discovery  of  the  solitary  cabin.  Miss  Lois  was 
not  much  impressed  by  the  cabin.  "A  man  is  better 
than,  a  house,  any  day, "  she  said.  ' '  But  the  thing  is  to  get 
the  man  to  say  'cold.'  I  shall  ask  him  to-morrow  if  he 
has  any  pills  for  a  cold  in  the  head  or  011  the  lungs ;  and, 
as  he  tells  long  stories  about  the  remarkable  cures  his 
different  bottles  have  effected,  I  hope,  when  I  once  get 
him  started,  to  hear  the  word  several  times.  I  confess, 
Ruth,  that  I  have  great  hopes;  I  feel  the  spirit  rising 
within  me  to  run  him  down." 

Miss  Lois  went  again  to  the  fair,  her  mission  bubbling 


512  ANNE. 

within  her.  At  eight  in  the  morning  she  started ;  at  nine 
in  the  evening  she  returned.  With  skirt  and  shawl  be 
draggled,  and  bonnet  awry,  she  came  to  Anne's  room, 
closed  the  door,  and  demanded  tragically  that  the  broom- 
switch  should  be  taken  from  the  shelf  and  applied  to  her 
own  thin  shoulders.  "I  deserve  it,"  she  said. 

"For  what  ?" said  Anne,  smiling. 

Miss  Lois  returned  no  answer  until  she  had  removed 
her  bonnet  and  brought  forward  a  chair,  seated  herself 
upon  it,  severely  erect,  with  folded  arms,  and  placed  her 
feet  on  the  round  of  another.  "I  went  to  that  fair," 
she  began,  in  a  concentrated  tone,  "and  I  followed  that 
medicine  man;  wherever  he  stopped  his  hand-cart  and 
tried  to  sell,  I  was  among  his  audience.  I  heard  all  his 
stories  over  and  over  again ;  every  time  he  produced  his 
three  certificates,  /read  them.  I  watched  his  hands,  too, 
and  made  up  my  mind  that  they  would  do,  though  I  did 
not  catch  him  in  open  left-handedness.  I  now  tried 
'cold.'  'Have  you  any  pills  for  a  cold  in  the  head  ?'  I 
asked.  But  all  he  said  was  'yes,'  and  he  brought  out  a 
bottle.  Then  I  tried  him  with  a  cold  on  the  lungs ;  but 
it  was  just  the  same.  '  What  are  your  testimonials  for 
colds  ?'  I  remarked,  as  though  I  had  not  quite  made  up 
my  mind ;  and  he  thereupon  told  two  stories,  but  they  were 
incoherent,  and  never  once  mentioned  the  word  I  was 
waiting  to  hear.  'Haven't  you  ever  had  a  cold  your 
self  ?'  I  said,  getting  mad.  '  Can't  you  speak  ?'  And 
then,  looking  frightened,  he  said  he  often  had  colds,  and 
that  he  took  those  medicines,  and  that  they  always  cured 
him.  And  then  hurriedly,  and  without  waiting  for  the 
two  bottles  which  I  held  in  my  hand  tightly,  he  began  to 
move  on  with  his  cart.  But  he  had  said  'gold,'  Ruth 
—he  had  actually  said  'gold  !'  And,  with  the  stings  of  a 
guilty,  murderous  conscience  torturing  him,  he  was  going 
away  without  the  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  each 
which  those  two  bottles  cost !  It  was  enough  for  me. 
I  tracked  him  from  that  moment  — at  a  distance,  of 
course,  and  in  roundabout  ways,  so  that  he  would  not  sus 
pect.  I  think  during  the  day  I  must  have  walked,  owing 
to  doublings  and  never  stopping,  twenty  miles.  When  at 


ANNE.  513 

last  the  fair  was  over,  and  he  started  away,  I  started  too. 
He  went  by  the  main  road,  and  I  by  a  lane,  and  such  work 
as  I  had  to  keep  him  in  sight,  and  yet  not  let  him  see  me ! 
I  almost  lost  him  several  times,  but  persevered  until  he 
too  turned  off  and  went  up  a  hill  opposite  toward  a  grove, 
dragging  his  little  cart  behind  him.  I  followed  as  quick 
ly  as  I  could.  He  was  in  the  grove  as  I  drew  near,  step 
ping  as  softly  as  possible,  and  others  were  with  him ;  1 
heard  the  murmur  of  voices.  '  I  have  come  upon  the 
whole  villainous  band,'  I  thought,  and  I  crept  softly 
in  among  the  trees,  hardly  daring  to  breathe.  Ruth,  the 
voices  had  a  little  camp ;  they  had  just  lighted  a  fire ;  and 
— what  do  you  think  they  were  ?  Just  a  parcel  of  chil 
dren,  the  eldest  a  slip  of  a  girl  of  ten  or  eleven !  I  nev 
er  was  more  dumfounded  in  my  life.  Ruth,  that  medi 
cine  man  sat  .down,  kissed  the  children  all  round,  opened 
his  cart,  took  out  bread,  cheese,  and  a  little  package  of  tea, 
while  the  eldest  girl  put  on  a  kettle,  and  they  all  began 
to  talk.  And  then  the  youngest,  a  little  tot,  climbed  up 
on  his  knee,  and  called  him — Mammy!  This  was  too 
much ;  and  I  appeared  011  the  scene.  Ruth,  he  gathered 
up  the  children  in  a  frightened  sort  of  way,  as  if  I  were 
going  to  eat  them.  'What  do  you  mean  by  following 
me  round  all  day  like  this  ?'  he  began,  trying  to  be  brave, 
though  I  could  see  how  scared  he  was.  It  ivas  rather 
unexpected,  you  know,  my  appearing  there  at  that  hour 
so  far  from  town.  'I  mean,'  said  I,  'to  know  who  and 
what  you  are.  Are  you  a  woman,  or  are  you  a  man  ?' 

' '  Can't  you  see, '  said  the  poor  creature,  '  with  all  these 
children  around?  But  it's  not  likely  from  your  looks 
that  you  ever  had  any  of  your  own,  so  you  don't  know.' 
She  said  that,"  thoughtfully  remarked  Miss  Lois,  inter 
rupting  her  own  narrative,  ' '  and  it  has  been  said  before. 
But  how  in  the  world  any  one  can  know  it  at  sight  is  and 
always  will  be  a  mystery  to  me.  Then  said  I  to  her, 
'  Are  you  the  mother,  then,  of  all  these  children  ?  And 
if  so,  how  came  you  to  be  selling  medicines  dossed  up 
like  a  man  ?  It's  perfectly  disgraceful,  and  you  ought  to 
be  arrested.' 

''No  one  would  buv  of  me  if  I  was  a  woman,'  she 
33 


514  ANNE. 

answered.  '  The  cart  and  medicines  belonged  to  my  hus, 
band,  and  he  died,  poor  fellow !  four  weeks  ago,  leaving 
me  without  a  cent.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  know  all  the 
medicines,  and  I  know  all  he  used  to  say  when  he  sold 
them .  He  was  about  my  size,  and  I  could  wear  his  clothes. 
I  just  thought  I'd  try  it  for  a  little  while  during  fair- 
time  for  the  sake  of  the  children — only  for  a  little  while 
to  get  started.  So  I  cut  my  hair  and  resked  it.  And 
it's  done  tolerably  well  until  you  come  along  and  nearly 
scared  my  life  out  of  me  yesterday  and  to-day.  I  don't  see 
what  on  earth  you  meant  by  it.' 

".Ruth,  I  took  tea  with  that  family  on  the  hill-sider 
and  I  gave  them  all  the  money  I  had  with  me.  I  have  now 
come  home.  Any  plan  you  have  to  propose,  I'll  follow 
without  a  word.  I  have  decided  that  my  mission  in  this 
life  is  not  to  lead.  But  she  did  say  gold  for  cold,"  added 
Miss  Lois,  with  the  spirit  of  "  scissors." 

"I  am  afraid  a  good  many  persons  say  it,"  answered 
Anne. 

The  next  day  Miss  Lois  gave  herself  up  passively  to  the 
boat.  They  were  to  take  courage  in  each  other's  presence, 
and  row  to  the  solitary  cabin  on  the  shore.  When  they 
reached  it,  it  was  again  deserted. 

"  There  is  no  path  leading  to  it  or  away  from  it  in  any 
direction,"  said  Miss  Lois,  after  peeping  through  the  small 
window.  "The  fire  is  still  burning.  The  owner,  there 
fore,  whoever  it  is,  uses  a  boat,  and  can  not  have  been 
long  gone  either,  or  the  fire  would  be  out." 

"  If  he  had  gone  down  the  river,  we  should  have  met 
him,"  suggested  Anne,  still  haunted  by  the  old  fear,  and 
watching  the  forest  glades  apprehensively. 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  a  7ie?"  said  Miss  Lois,  with 
grim  humor.  "Perhaps  this,  too,  is  a  woman.  How 
ever,  as  you  say,  if  he  had  gone  down  the  river,  probably 
we  should  have  met  him — a  *  probably'  is  all  we  have  to 
stand  on — and  the  chances  are,  therefore,  that  he  has  gone 
up.  So  we  will  go  up. " 

They^ook  their  places  in  the  skiff  again,  and  the  little 
craft  moved  forward.  After  another  half-hour  they  saw, 
to  their  surprise,  a  broad  expanse  of  shining  water  open- 


ANNE.  515 

ing  out  before  them :  the  river  was  the  outlet  of  a  little 
lake  two  miles  long-. 

"This,  then,  is  where  they  go  fishing,"  said  Miss  Lois. 
"The  Blackwells  spoke  of  the  pond,  but  I  thought  it  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  valley.  Push  out,  Euth.  There 
are  two  boats  on  it,  both  dug-outs;  we'll  row  by  them." 

The  first  boat  contained  a  boy,  who  said,  ' '  Good-day, 
mums,"  and  showed  a  string  of  fish.  The  second  boat, 
which  was  farther  up  the  lake,  contained  a  man.  He 
was  also  fishing,  and  his  face  was  shaded  by  an  old 
slouch  hat.  Anne,  who  was  rowing,  could  not  see  him  as 
they  approached;  but  she  saw  Miss  Lois's  hands  close  sud 
denly  upon  each  other  in  their  lisle-thread  gloves,  and 
was  prepared  for  something,  she  knew  not  what.  No 
word  was  spoken;  she  rowed  steadily  on,  though  her 
heart  was  throbbing.  When  she  too  could  look  at  the 
man,  she  saw  what  it  was:  he  was  holding  his  rod  with 
his  left  hand. 

Their  skiff  had  not  paused ;  it  passed  him  and  his  dug 
out,  and  moved  onward  a  quarter  of  a  mile— half  a  mile— 
before  they  spoke ;  they  were  afraid  the  very  air  would  be 
tray  them.  Then  Anne  beached  the  boat  under  the  shade 
of  a  tree,  took  off  her  straw  hat,  and  bathed  her  pale  face 
in  the  clear  water. 

"After  all,  it  is  the  vaguest  kind  of  a  chance,"  said 
Miss  Lois,  rallying,  and  bringing  forward  the  common- 
sense  view  of  the  case :  "  no  better  a  one,  at  this  stage, 
than  the  peony  farmer  or  my  medicine  man.  You  must 
not  be  excited,  Ruth." 

"I  am  excited  only  because  I  have  thought  so  much 
of  the  river, "  said  Anne.  ' '  The  theory  that  the  man  who 
did  it  went  away  from  the  foot  of  that  meadow  in  a  boat, 
and  up  this  river,  has  haunted  me  constantly." 

' '  Theories  are  like  scaffolding :  they  are  not  the  house, 
but  you  can  not  build  the  house  without  them,"  said 
Miss  Lois.  "What  we've  got  to  do  next  is  to  see  wheth 
er  this  man  has  all  his  fingers,  whether  he  is  a  woman, 
and  whether  he  says,  'gold.'  Will  you  leave  it  to  me,  or 
will  you  speak  to  him  yourself?  On  the  whole,  I  think 
you  had  better  speak  to  him:  your  face  is  in  your  favor." 


518  ANNE. 

"Whiskey !"  she  said.  "And  my  money  pays  for  the 
damnable  stuff !"  This  reflection  kept  her  silent  while  they 
returned  to  the  skiff ;  but  when  they  were  again  afloat,  she 
sighed  and  yielded  it  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  emergencies  of 
the  quest.  Returning  to  the  former  subject,  she  held  forth 
as  follows:  "It  is  something,  Ruth,  but  not  all.  We 
must  not  hope  too  much.  What  is  it?  A  man  lives  up 
the  river,  and  owns  a  boat;  he  is  left-handed,  and  has 
cushions  of  flesh  under  his  finger-tips :  that  is  the  whole. 
For  we  can  scarcely  count  as  evidence  the  fact  that  he  is 
as  ugly  as  a  stump  fence,  such  men  being  not  uncommon 
in  the  world,  and  often  pious  as  well.  We  must  do  no 
thing  hurriedly,  and  make  no  inquiries,  lest  we  scare  the 
game — if  it  is  game.  To-morrow  is  market-day;  he  will 
probably  be  in  the  village  with  fish  to  sell,  and  the  best 
way  will  be  for  me  to  find  out  quietly  who  his  associates 
are,  by  using  my  eyes  and  not  my  tongue.  His  asso 
ciates,  if  he  has  any,  might  next  be  tackled,  through  their 
wives,  perhaps.  Maybe  they  do  sewing,  some  of  them ; 
in  that  case,  we  could  order  something,  and  so  get  to 
speaking  terms.  There's  my  old  challis,  which  I  have 
had  dyed  black — it  might  be  made  over,  though  I  was 
going  to  do  it  myself.  And  now  do  row  home,  Ruth ; 
I'm  dropping  for  my  tea.  This  exploring  work  is  power 
fully  wearing  on  the  nerves." 

The  next  day  she  went  to  the  village. 

Anne,  finding  herself  uncontrollably  restless,  went  down 
and  unfastened  the  skiff,  with  the  intention  of  rowing 
awhile  to  calm  her  excited  fancies.  She  went  up  the  river 
for  a  mile  or  two.  Her  mind  had  fastened  itself  tenacious 
ly  upon  the  image  of  the  fisherman,  and  would  not  loosen 
its  hold.  She  imagined  him  stealing  up  the  stairway  and 
leaning  over  Helen;  then  escaping  with  his  booty,  run 
ning  through  the  meadow,  and  hiding  it  in  his  boat,  pro 
bably  the  same  old  black  dug-out  she  had  seen.  And  then, 
while  she  was  thinking  of  him,  she  came  suddenly  upon 
him,  sitting  in  his  dug-out,  not  ten  feet  distant,  fishing. 
Miss  Lois  had  been  mistaken  in  her  surmise :  he  was  not  in 
the  village,  but  here. 

There  had  not  been  a  moment  of  preparation  for  Anne; 


ANNE.  519 

yet  in  the  emergency  coolness  came.  Resting  on  her  oars, 
she  spoke:  "Have  you  any  fish  to-day  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  held  up  one.  " That's  all,"  he 
said,  drawing  his  hand  over  his  mouth  by  way  of  prepa 
ration  for  conversation. 

"I  should  not  think  there  would  be  as  many  fish  here 
as  in  the  lake,"  she  continued,  keeping  her  boat  at  a  dis 
tance  by  a  slight  motion  of  her  oars. 

"  When  the  wind  blows  hard,  there's  more  in  the  river," 
he  answered.  ' '  Wind  blows  to-day. " 

Was  she  mistaken  ?     Had  he  given  a  sound  ofdioth? 

"But  the  water  of  the  lake  must  be  colder, "she  said, 
hardly  able  to  pronounce  the  word  herself. 

1 ;  Yes,  in  places  where  it's  deep.    But  it's  mostly  shaller. " 

"How  cold  is  it?  Very  cold?"  (Was  she  saying 
"gold"  too?) 

' '  No,  not  very,  this  time  o'  year.  But  cold  enough  in 
April." 

"What?" 

"Cold  enough  in  April,"  replied  the  fisherman,  his  small 
eyes  gazing  at  her  with  increasing  approbation. 

He  had  given  the  sound  of  g  to  the  c.  The  pulses  in 
Anne's  throat  and  temples  were  throbbing  so  rapidly  now 
that  she  could  not  speak. 

"I  could  bring  yer  some  fish  to-morrer,  I  reckon,"  said 
the  man,  making  a  clicking  sound  with  his  teeth  as  he  felt 
a  bite  and  then  lost  it. 

She  nodded,  and  began  to  turn  the  boat. 

"Where  do  you  live ?"  he  called,  as  the  space  between 
them  widened. 

She  succeeded  in  pronouncing  the  name  of  her  hostess, 
and  then  rowed  round  the  curve  out  of  sight,  trying  not  to 
betray  her  tremulous  haste  and  fear.  All  the  way  home 
she  rowed  with  the  strength  of  a  giantess,  not  knowing  how 
she  was  exerting  herself  until  she  began  to  walk  through 
the  meadow  toward  the  house,  when  she  found  her  limbs 
failing  her.  She  reached  her  room  with  an  effort,  and 
locking  her  door,  threw  herself  down  on  a  couch  to  wait 
for  Miss  Lois.  It  was  understood  in  the  house  that  "poor 
Miss  Young"  had  one  of  her  "mathematical  headaches." 


520  ANNK 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"  God  made  him ;  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man." 

— SHAKSPEARE. 

WHEN  Miss  Lois  returned,  and  saw  Anne's  face,  she 
was  herself  stirred  to  excitement.  ' '  You  have  seen  him !" 
she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes.     He  is  the  murderer:  I  feel  it." 

"Did he  say 'gold1?" 

"He  did." 

They  sat  down  on  the  couch  together,  and  in  whispers 
Anne  told  all.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"We  must  work  as  lightly  as  thistle-down,"  said  Miss 
Lois,  ' '  or  we  shall  lose  him.  He  was  not  in  the  village  to 
day,  and  as  he  was  not,  I  thought  it  safer  not  to  inquire 
about  him.  I  am  glad  now  that  I  did  not.  But  you  are  in 
a  high  fever,  dear  child.  This  suspense  must  be  brought  to 
an  end,  or  it  will  kill  you. "  She  put  her  arms  round  Anne 
and  kissed  her  fondly — an  unusual  expression  of  feeling 
from  Miss  Lois,  who  had  been  brought  up  in  the  old-fash 
ioned  rigidly  undemonstrative  New  England  manner. 
And  the  girl  put  her  head  down  upon  her  old  friend's 
shoulder  and  clung  to  her.  But  she  could  not  weep ;  the 
relief  of  tears  was  not  yet  come. 

In  the  morning  they  saw  the  fisherman  at  the  foot  of 
the  meadow,  and  watched  him  through  the  blinds,  breath 
lessly.  He  was  so  much  and  so  important  to  them  that  it 
seemed  as  if  they  must  be  the  same  to  him.  But  he  was 
only  bringing  a  string  of  fish  to  sell.  He  drew  up  his  dug 
out  on  the  bank,  and  came  toward  the  house  with  a  rolling 
step,  carrying  his  fish. 

' '  There's  a  man  here  with  some  fish,  that  was  order 
ed,  he  says,  by  somebody  from  here,"  said  a  voice  on 
the  stairs.      "Was  it  you,  Mrs.  Young  ?" 
•     "Yes.     Come  in,  Mrs.  Blackwell — do.     My  niece  order 
ed  them :   you  know  they're  considered  very  good  for  an 


ANNE.  521 

exhausted  brain.  Perhaps  I'd  better  go  down  and  look 
at  them  myself.  And,  by-the-way,  who  is  this  man  ?" 

"It's  Sandy  Groom ;  he  lives  up  near  the  pond." 

"Yes,  we  met  him  up  that  way.     Is  he  a  German  ?" 

"There's  Dutch  blood  in  him,  I  reckon,  as  there  is  in 
most  of  the  people  about  here  who  are  not  Marylanders," 
said  Mrs.  Black  well,  who  was  a  Mary  lander. 

' '  He's  a  curious-looking  creature, "  pursued  Mrs.  Young, 
as  they  descended  the  stairs.  "Is  he  quite  right  in  his 
mind  ?" 

' '  Some  think  he  isn't ;  but  others  say  he's  sharper  than 
we  suppose.  He  drinks,  though." 

By  this  time  they  were  in  the  kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Young 
went  out  to  the  porch  to  receive  and  pay  for  the  fish, 
her  niece  Ruth  silently  following.  Groom  took  off  his 
old  hat  and  made  a  backward  scrape  with  his  foot  by  way 
of  salutation ;  his  small  head  was  covered  with  a  mat  of 
boyish-looking  yellow  curls,  wThich  contrasted  strangely 
with  his  red  face. 

"Here's  yer  fish, "he  said,  holding  them  out  toward 
Anne. 

But  she  could  not  take  them :  she  was  gazing,  fascina 
ted,  at  his  hand — that  broad  short  left  hand  which  haunt 
ed  her  like  a  horrible  phantom  day  and  night.  She  raised 
her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  in  order  to  conceal,  as  far  as 
possible,  the  horror  she  feared  her  face  must  betray. 

"You  never  could  abide  a  fishy  smell,  Ruth,"  said  Mrs. 
Young,  interposing.  She  paid  the  fisherman,  and  asked 
whether  he  fished  in  the  winter.  He  said  ' '  no,"  but  gave 
no  reason.  He  did  not,  as  she  had  hoped,  pronounce  the 
desired  word.  Then,  after  another  gaze  at  Anne,  he  went 
away,  but  turned  twice  to  look  back  before  he  reached 
the  end  of  the  garden. 

"It  can  not  be  that  he  suspects!"  murmured  Anne. 

"No;  it's  your  face,  child.  Happy  or  unhappy,  you 
can  not  help  having  just  the  same  eyes,  hair,  and  skin, 
thank  the  Lord !" 

They  went  up  stairs  and  watched  him  from  the  window ; 
he  pushed  off  his  dug-out,  got  in,  and  paddled  toward  the 
village. 


522  ANNE. 

"  More  whiskey!"  said  Miss  Lois,  sitting  down  and  rub 
bing  her  forehead.  ' '  I  wish,  Ruth  Young- — I  devoutly 
wish  that  I  knew  what  it  is  best  to  do  now  /" 

"Then  you  think  with  me  ?"  said  Anne,  eagerly. 

4 'By  no  means.  There  isn't  a  particle  of  certainty. 
But — I  don't  deny  that  there  is  a  chance.  The  trouble  is 
that  we  can  hardly  stir  in  the  matter  without  arousing 
his  suspicion.  If  he  had  lived  in  the  village  among  other 
people,  it  would  not  have  been  difficult ;  but,  all  alone  in 
that  far-off  cabin — 

Anne  clasped  her  hands  suddenly.  "Let  us  send  for 
Pere  Michaux!"  she  said.  "There  was  a  picture  of  the 
Madonna  in  his  cabin — he  is  a  Roman  Catholic.  Let  us 
send  for  Pere  Michaux." 

They  gazed  at  each  other  in  excited  silence.  Miss  Lois 
was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I'm  not  at  all  sure  but  that  you 
have  got  hold  of  the  difficulty  by  the  right  handle  at  last, 
Anne,"  she  said,  slowly,  drawing  a  long  audible  breath. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  the  name  since  their  de 
parture  from  New  York. 

And  the  letter  was  written  immediately. 

"It's  a  long  journey  for  a  small  chance,"  said  the  eld 
er  woman,  surveying  it  as  it  lay  sealed  011  the  table. 
"Still,  I  think  he  will  come." 

"Yes,  for  humanity's  sake,"  replied  Anne. 

* '  I  don't  know  about  humanity, "  replied  her  companion, 
huskily ;  ' '  but  he  will  come  for  yours.  Let  us  get  out  in 
the  open  air ;  I'm  perfectly  tired  out  by  this  everlasting 
whispering.  It  would  be  easier  to  roar. " 

The  letter  was  sent.  Four  days  for  it  to  go,  four  days 
for  the  answer  to  return,  one  day  for  chance.  They  agreed 
not  to  become  impatient  before  the  tenth  day. 

But  on  the  ninth  came,  not  a  letter,  but  something  bet 
ter — Pere  Michaux  in  person. 

They  were  in  the  fields  at  sunset,  at  some  distance  from 
the  house,  when  Anne's  eyes  rested  upon  him,  walking 
along  the  country  road  in  his  old  robust  fashion,  on  his 
way  to  the  farm-house.  She  ran  across  the  field  to  the 
fence,  calling  his  name.  Miss  Lois  followed,  but  more 
slowly;  her  mind  was  in  a  turmoil  regarding  his  unex- 


ANNE.  523 

pected  arrival,  and  the  difficulty  of  making  him  compre 
hend  or  conform  to  the  net- work  of  fable  she  had  woven 
round  their  history. 

The  old  priest  gave  Anne  his  blessing;  he  was  much 
moved  at  seeing  her  again.  She  held  his  hand  in  both  of 
her  own,  and  could  scarcely  realize  that  it  was  he,  her 
dear  old  island  friend,  standing  there  in  person  beside  her. 

"Dear,  dear  Pere  Michaux,  how  good  you  are  to  come !" 
she  said,  incoherently,  the  tears  filling  her  eyes,  half  in 
sorrow,  half  in  joy. 

Miss  Lois  now  came  up  and  greeted  him.  "I  am 
glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  Then,  in  the  same  breath: 
; '  Our  names.  Father  Michaux,  are  Young ;  Young — please 
remember." 

"How  good  you  are  to  come!"  said  Anne  again,  the 
weight  on  her  heart  lightened  for  the  moment  as  she 
looked  into  the  clear,  kind,  wise  old  eyes  that  met  her 
own. 

" Not  so  very  good,"  said  Pere  Michaux,  smiling.  "I 
have  been  wishing  to  see  you  for  some  time,  and  I  think  I 
should  have  taken  the  journey  before  long  in  any  case. 
Vacations  are  due  me ;  it  is  years  since  I  have  had  one, 
and  I  am  an  old  man  now." 

"You  will  never  be  old,"  said  the  girl,  affectionately. 

"Young  is  the  name,"  repeated  Miss  Lois,  with  un 
conscious  appositeness — "Deborah  and  Ruth  Young." 

' '  I  am  glad  at  least  that  I  am  not  too  old  to  help  you, 
my  child,"  answered  Pere  Michaux,  paying  little  heed  to 
the  elder  woman's  anxious  voice. 

They  were  still  standing  by  the  road-side.  Pere  Mi 
chaux  proposed  that  they  should  remain  in  the  open  air 
while  the  beautiful  hues  of  the  sunset  lasted,  and  they 
therefore  returned  to  the  field,  and  sat  down  under  an 
elm-tree.  Under  ordinary  circumstances,  Miss  Lois  would 
have  strenuously  objected  to  this  sylvan  indulgence,  hav 
ing  peculiarly  combative  feelings  regarding  dew ;  but  this 
evening  the  maze  of  doubt  in  which  she  was  wandering 
as  to  whether  or  not  Pere  Michaux  would  stay  in  her  web 
made  dew  a  secondary  consideration.  Remaining  in  the 
iields  would  at  least  give  time. 


524  ANNE. 

Pere  Michaux  was  as  clear-headed  and  energetic  as 
ever.  After  the  first  few  expressions  of  gladness  and  sat 
isfaction,  it  was  not  long-  before  he  turned  to  Anne,  and 
spoke  of  the  subject  which  lay  before  them.  "Tell  me 
all,"  he  said.  "  This  is  as  good  a  time  and  place  as  any 
we  could  have,  and  there  should  be,  I  think,  no  delay." 

But  though  he  spoke  to  Anne,  it  was  Miss  Lois  who 
answered :  it  woulJ  have  been  simply  impossible  for  her 
not  to  take  that  narrative  into  her  own  hands. 

He  listened  to  the  tale  with  careful  attention,  not  in 
terrupting  her  many  details  with  so  much  as  a  smile  or 
a  shrug.  This  was  very  unlike  his  old  way  with  Miss 
Lois,  and  showed  more  than  anything  else  could  have 
done  his  absorbed  interest  in  the  story. 

"  It  is  the  old  truth,"  he  said,  after  the  long  stream  of 
words  had  finally  ceased.  ' '  Regarding  the  unravelling  of 
mysteries,  women  seem  sometimes  endowed  with  a  sixth 
sense.  A  diamond  is  lost  oii  a  turnpike.  A  man  goes 
along  the  turnpike  searching  for  it.  A  woman,  search 
ing  for  it  also,  turns  vaguely  off  into  a  field,  giving  no 
logical  reason  for  her  course,  and — finds  it." 

But  while  he  talked,  his  mind  was  in  reality  dwelling 
upon  the  pale  girl  beside  him,  the  young  girl  in  whom  he 
had  felt  such  strong  interest,  for  whom  he  had  involun 
tarily  cherished  such  high  hope  in  those  early  days  on 
the  island. 

He  knew  of  her  testimony  at  the  trial ;  he  had  not  been 
surprised.  What  he  had  prophesied  for  her  had  come  in 
deed.  But  not  so  fortunately  or  so  happily  as  he  had 
hoped.  He  had  saved  her  from  Erastus  Pronando  for  this ! 
Was  it  well  done  ?  He  roused  himself  at  last,  perceiving 
that  Anne  was  noticing  his  abstraction;  her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him  with  anxious  expectation. 

"  I  must  go  to  work  in  my  own  way,"  he  said,  strok 
ing  her  hair.  ' '  One  point,  however,  I  have  already  de 
cided  :  you  must  leave  this  neighborhood  immediately.  I 
wish  you  had  never  come." 

' '  But  she  can  not  be  separated  from  me, "  said  Miss  Lois ; 
"  and  of  course  /shall  be  necessary  in  the  search — I  must 
be  here." 


ANNE.  525 

"  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  any  necessity  at  present,"  re 
plied  Pere  Michaux.  "You  have  done  all  you  could,  and 
I  shall  work  better,  I  think,  alone."  Then,  as  the  old 
quick  anger  flashed  from  her  eyes,  he  turned  to  Anne. 
"  It  is  on  your  account,  child,"  he  said.  "  I  must  make 
you  go.  I  know  it  is  like  taking  your  life  from  you  to 
send  you  away  now.  But  if  anything  comes  of  this — if 
your  woman's  blind  leap  into  the  dark  proves  to  have 
been  guided  by  intuition,  the  lime-light  of  publicity  will 
instantly  be  turned  upon  this  neighborhood,  and  you 
could  not  escape  discovery.  Your  precautions,  or  rather 
those  of  our  good  friend  Miss  Lois,  have  availed  so  far: 
you  can  still  depart  in  their  shadow  unobserved.  Do  so, 
then,  while  you  can.  My  first  wish  is — can  not  help  being 
— that  you  should  escape.  I  would  rather  even  have  the 
clew  fail  than  have  your  name  further  connected  with 
the  matter." 

"This  is  what  we  get  by  applying  to  a  man,"  said 
Miss  Lois,  in  high  indignation.  "Always  thinking  of 
evil!" 

' '  Yes,  men  do  think  of  it.  But  Anne  will  yield  to  my 
judgment,  will  she  not  ?" 

"I  will  do  as  you  think  best,"  she  answered.  But  no 
color  rose  in  her  pale  face,  as  he  had  expected;  the 
pressing  danger  and  the  fear  clothed  the  subject  with  a 
shroud. 

Miss  Lois  did  not  hide  her  anger  and  disappointment. 
Yet  she  would  not  leave  Anne.  And  therefore  the  next 
morning  Mrs.  Young  and  her  niece,  with  health  much 
improved  by  their  sojourn  in  the  country,  bade  good-by 
to  their  hostess,  and  went  southward  in  the  little  stage  on 
their  way  back  to  "  Washington." 

Pere  Michaux  was  not  seen  at  the  farm-house  at  all ;  he 
had  returned  to  the  village  from  the  fields,  and  had  taken 
rooms  for  a  short  sojourn  at  the  Timloe  hotel. 

The  "  Washington,"  in  this  instance,  was  a  small  town 
seventy  miles  distant ;  here  Mrs.  Young  and  her  niece  took 
lodgings,  and  began,  with  what  patience  they  could  mus 
ter,  their  hard  task  of  waiting. 

As  for  Pere  Michaux,  he  went  fishing. 


526  ANNE. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  LETTER  OF  A  SUMMER  FISHERMAN. 

"  I  have  labored  hard,  Anne — harder  than  ever  before 
in  my  life.  I  thought  I  knew  what  patience  was,  in  my 
experience  with  my  Indians  and  half-breeds.  I  never 
dreamed  of  its  breadth  until  now!  For  my  task  has 
been  the  hard  one  of  winning  the  trust  of  a  trustless  mind 
— trustless,  yet  crafty;  of  subduing  its  ever-rising  reason 
less  suspicion;  of  rousing  its  nearly  extinct  affections; 
of  touching  its  undeveloped,  almost  dead,  conscience,  and 
raising  it  to  the  point  of  confession.  I  said  to  myself  that 
I  would  do  all  this  in  sincerity ;  that  I  would  make  my 
self  do  it  in  sincerity ;  that  I  would  teach  the  poor  crea 
ture  to  love  me,  and  having  once  gained  his  tvarped  af 
fection,  I  would  assume  the  task  of  caring  for  him  as  long 
as  life  lasted.  If  I  did  this  in  truth  and  real  earnestness 
I  might  succeed,  as  the  missionaries  of  my  Church  succeed, 
with  the  most  brutal  savages,  because  they  are  in  earnest. 
Undertaking  this,  of  course  I  also  accepted  the  chance 
that  all  my  labor,  regarding  the  hope  that  you  have 
cherished,  might  be  in  vain,  and  that  this  poor  bundle  of 
clay  might  not  be,  after  all,  the  criminal  we  seek.  Yet 
had  it  been  so,  my  care  of  him  through  life  must  have  been 
the  same ;  having  gained  his  confidence,  I  could  never 
have  deserted  him  while  I  lived.  Each  day  I  have  labored 
steadily ;  but  often  I  have  advanced  so  slowly  that  I  seem 
ed  to  myself  not  to  advance  at  all. 

' '  I  began  by  going  to  the  pond  to  fish .  We  met  daily. 
At  first  I  did  not  speak;  I  allowed  him  to  become  ac 
customed  to  my  presence.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I 
even  returned  his  glance  of  confused  respect  and  acquaint 
ance  as  our  boats  passed  near  each  other,  for  he  had  at 
once  recognized  the  priest.  I  built  my  foundations  with 
exactest  care  and  patience,  often  absenting  myself  in  or 
der  to  remove  all  suspicion  of  watchfulness  or  regularity 
from  his  continually  suspicious  mind ;  for  suspicion,  enor 
mously  developed,  is  one  of  his  few  mental  powers.  -  I 
had  to  make  my  way  through  its  layers  as  a  minute  blood 
vessel  penetrates  the  cumbrous  leathern  hide  of  the  rhi 
noceros. 


ANNE.  527 

"I  will  not  tell  you  all  the  details  now ;  but  at  last,  one 
morning,  by  a  little  chance  event,  my  long,  weary,  and  ap 
parently  unsuccessful  labor  was  crowned  with  success. 
He  became  attached  to  me.  I  suppose  in  all  his  poor 
warped  life  before  no  one  had  ever  shown  confidence  in 
him  or  tried  to  win  his  affection. 

' '  The  next  step  was  not  so  difficult.  I  soon  learned 
that  he  had  a  secret.  In.  his  ignorant  way,  he  is  a  firm 
believer  in  the  terrors  of  eternal  punishment,  and  having 
become  attached  to  me,  I  could  see  that  he  was  debating  in 
his  own  mind  whether  or  not  to  confide  it  to  me  as  a 
priest,  and  obtain  absolution.  I  did  not  urge  him;  I 
did  not  even  invite  his  confidence.  But  I  continued  faith 
ful  to  him,  and  I  knew  that  in  time  it  would  come.  It 
did.  You  are  right,  Anne ;  he  is  the  murderer. 

* '  It  seems  that  by  night  he  is  tormented  by  supersti 
tious  fear.  He  is  not  able  to  sleep  unless  he  stupefies  him 
self  with  liquor,  because  he  expects  to  see  his  victim  ap 
pear  and  look  at  him  with  her  hollow  eyes.  To  rid  him 
self  of  this  haunting  terror,  he  told  all  to  me  under  the 
seal  of  the  confessional.  And  then  began  the  hardest  task 
of  all. 

' '  For  as  a  priest  I  could  not  betray  him  (and  I  should 
never  have  done  so,  Anne,  even  for  your  sake),  and  yet 
another  life  was  at  stake.  I  told  him  with  all  the  power, 
all  the  eloquence,  I  possessed,  that  his  repentance  would 
never  be  accepted,  that  he  himself  would  never  be  for 
given,  unless  he  rescued  by  a  public  avowal  the  inno 
cent  man  who  was  suffering  in  his  place.  And  I  gave 
him  an  assurance  also,  which  must  be  kept  even  if  I  have 
to  go  in  person  to  the  Governor,  that,  in  case  of  public 
avowal,  his  life  should  be  spared.  His  intellect  is  plain 
ly  defective.  If  Miss  Teller,  Mr.  Heathcote,  and  the  law 
yers  unite  in  an  appeal  for  him,  I  think  it  will  be  granted. 

' '  It  has  been,  Anne,  very  hard,  fearfully  hard,  to  bring 
him  to  the  desired  point;  more  than  once  I  have  lost 
heart.  Yet  never  have  I  used  the  lever  of  real  menace, 
and  I  wish  you  to  know  that  I  have  not.  At  last,  thanks 
be  to  the  eternal  God,  patience  has  conquered.  Urged  by 
the  superstition  which  consumes  him,  he  consented  to  re- 


528  ANNE. 

peat  to  the  local  officials,  in  my  presence  and  under  my  pro 
tection,  the  confession  he  had  made  to  me,  and  to  give  up 
the  watch  and  rings,  which  have  lain  all  this  time  buried 
in  the  earth  behind  his  cabin,  he  fearing  to  uncover  them 
until  a  second  crop  of  grass  should  be  green  upon  his  vic 
tim's  grave,  lest  she  should  appear  and  take  them  from 
him !  He  did  this  in  order  to  be  delivered  in  this  world 
and  the  next,  and  he  will  be  delivered;  for  his  crime  wa,s 
a  brute  one,  like  that  of  the  wolf  who  slays  the  lamb. 

"I  shall  see  you  before  long,  my  dear  child;  but  you 
will  find  me  worn  and  old.  This  has  been  the  hardest  toil 
of  my  whole  life." 

Pere  Michaux  did  not  add  that  his  fatigue  of  body  and 
mind  was  heightened  by  a  painful  injury  received  at  the 
hands  of  the  poor  wretch  he  was  trying  to  help.  Unex 
pectedly  one  morning  Croom  had  attacked  him  with  a  bil 
let  of  wood,  striking  from  behind,  and  without  cause,  save 
that  he  coveted  the  priest's  fishing-tackle,  and,  in  addition, 
something  in  the  attitude  of  the  defenseless  white-haired 
old  man  at  that  moment  tempted  him,  as  a  lasso-thrower 
is  tempted  by  a  convenient  chance  position  of  cattle.  The 
blow,  owing  to  a  fortunate  movement  of  Pere  Michaux 
at  the  same  instant,  was  not  mortal,  but  it  disabled  the 
old  man's  shoulder  and  arm.  And  perceiving  this,  Croom 
had  fled.  But  what  had  won  his  brute  heart  was  the  peace 
ful  appearance  of  the  priest  at  his  cabin  door  early  the 
next  morning,  where  the  fisherman  had  made  all  ready 
for  flight,  and  his  friendly  salutation.  ' '  Of  course  I  knew 
it  was  all  an  accident,  Croom,"  he  said ;  "that  you  did  not 
mean  it.  And  I  have  come  out  to  ask  if  you  have  not 
something  you  can  recommend  to  apply  to  the  bruise. 
You  people  who  live  in  the  woods  have  better  balms  than 
those  made  in  towns ;  and  besides,  I  would  rather  ask  your 
help  than  apply  to  a  physician,  who  might  ask  questions." 
He  entered  the  cabin  as  he  spoke,  took  off  his  hat,  sat  down, 
and  offered  his  bruised  arm  voluntarily  to  the  hands  that 
had  struck  the  blow.  Croom,  frightened,  brought  out  a 
liniment,  awkwardly  assisted  the  priest  in  removing  his 
coat,  and  then,  as  the  old  man  sat  quietly  expectant,  began 


ANNE.  §29 

to  apply  it.  As  he  went  on  he  regained  his  courage :  evi 
dently  he  was  not  to  be  punished.  The  bruised  flesh  ap 
pealed  to  him,  and  before  he  knew  it  he  was  bandaging  the 
arm  almost  with  affection.  The  priest's  trust  had  won 
what  stood  in  the  place  of  a  heart :  it  was  so  new  to  him  to 
be  trusted.  This  episode  of  the  injured  arm,  more  than 
anything  else,  won  in  the  end  the  confession. 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  NEW  YORK  "ZEUS." 

"  Even  the  story  of  the  last  great  battle  was  eclipsed  in 
interest  in  certain  circles  of  this  city  yesterday  by  the  tid 
ings  which  were  flashed  over  the  wires  from  a  remote  lit 
tle  village  in  Pennsylvania.  Our  readers  wTill  easily  re 
call  the  trial  of  Captain  Ward  Heathcote  on  the  charge 
of  murder,  the  murder  of  his  own  wife.  The  evidence 
against  the  accused  was  close,  though  purely  circumstan 
tial.  The  remarkable  incidents  of  the  latter  part  of  the 
trial  have  not  been  forgotten.  The  jury  were  unable  to 
agree,  and  the  case  went  over  to  the  November  term. 

"The  accused,  though  not  convicted,  has  not  had  the 
sympathy  of  the  public.  Probably  eight  out  of  ten 
among  those  who  read  the  evidence  have  believed  him 
guilty.  But  yesterday  brought  the  startling  intelligence 
that  human  judgment  has  again  been  proven  widely  at 
fault,  that  the  real  murderer  is  in  custody,  and  that  he  has 
not  .only  confessed  his  guilt,  but  also  restored  the  rings 
and  watch,  together  with  the  missing  towel.  The  chain 
of  links  is  complete. 

"The  criminal  is  described  as  a  creature  of  uncouth 
appearance,  in  mental  capacity  deficient,  though  extraor 
dinarily  cunning.  He  spent  the  small  amount  of  mon 
ey  in  the  purse,  but  was  afraid  to  touch  the  rings  and 
watch  until  a  second  crop  of  grass  should  be  growing 
upon  his  victim's  grave,  lest  she  should  appear  and  take 
them  from  him !  It  is  to  ignorant  superstitious  terror  of 
this  kind  that  we  owe  the  final  capture  of  this  grotesque 
murderer. 

' '  His  story  fills  out  the  missing  parts  of  the  evidence, 
and  explains  the  apparent  participation  of  the  accused  to 
have  been  but  an  intermingling  of  personalities.  After 

34 


530  ANNE. 

Captain  Heathcote  had  gone  down  the  outside  stairway 
with  the  two  towels  in  his  pocket,  this  man,  Groom,  who 
was  passing  the  end  of  the  garden  at  the  time,  and  had 
seen  him  come  out  by  the  light  from  the  lamp  within, 
stole  up  the  same  stairway  in  order  to  peer  into  the  apart 
ment,  partly  from  curiosity,  partly  from  the  thought  that 
there  might  he  something  there  to  steal.  He  supposed 
there  was  no  one  in  the  room,  but  when  he  reached  the 
window  and  peeped  through  a  crack  in  the  old  blind,  he  saw 
that  there  was  some  one — a  woman  asleep.  In  his  cau 
tion  he  had  consumed  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  in  cross 
ing  the  garden  noiselessly  and  ascending  the  stairway, 
and  during  this  interval  Mrs.  Heathcote  had  fallen  asleep. 
The  light  from  the  lamp  happened  to  shine  full  on  the  dia 
monds  in  her  rings  as  they  lay,  together  with  her  purse 
and  watch,  on  the  bureau,  and  he  coveted  the  unexpected 
booty  as  soon  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  it.  Quick  as  thought 
he  drew  open  the  blind,  and  crept  in  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  going  straight  toward  the  bureau ;  but  ere  he  could 
reach  it  the  sleeper  stirred.  He  had  not  intended  murder, 
but  his  brute  nature  knew  no  other  way,  and  in  a  second 
the  deed  was  done.  Then  he  seized  the  watch,  purse,  and 
rings,  went  out  as  he  had  come,  through  the  window, 
closing  the  blind  behind  him,  and  stole  down  the  stairway 
in  the  darkness.  The  man  is  left-handed.  It  will  be  re 
membered  that  this  proved  lef  t-handedness  of  the  murder 
er  was  regarded  as  a  telling  point  against  Captain  Heath 
cote,  his  right  arm  being  at  the  time  disabled,  and  support 
ed  by  a  sling. 

"  Croom  went  through  the  grass  meadow  to  the  river- 
bank,  where  his  boat  was  tied,  and  hastily  hiding  his  spoil 
under  the  seat,  was  about  to  push  off,  when  he  was  startled 
by  a  slight  sound,  which  made  him  think  that  another  boat 
was  approaching.  Stealing  out  again,  he  moved  cautious 
ly  toward  the  noise,  but  it  was  only  a  man  batlling  at 
some  distance  down  the  stream,  the  stillness  of  the  night 
having  made  his  movements  in  the  water  audible.  Wish 
ing  to  find  out  if  the  bather  were  any  one  he  knew,  Croom, 
under  cover  of  the  darkness,  spoke  to  him  from  the  bank, 
asking  some  chance  question.  The  voice  that  replied  was 


"  HE  REACHED  THE  WINDOW,  AND  PEEPED  THROUGH  A  CRACK  IN 
THE  OLD  BLIND." 


ANNE.  531 

that  of  a  stranger ;  still,  to  make  all  sure,  Groom  secreted 
himself  at  a  short  distance,  after  pretending  to  depart  by 
the  main  road,  and  waited.  Presently  the  bather  passed 
by,  going  homeward ;  Groom,  very  near  him,  kneeling  be 
side  a  bush,  was  convinced  by  the  step  and  figure  that  it 
was  no  one  he  knew,  that  it  was  not  one  of  the  villagers  or 
neighboring  farmers.  After  waiting  until  all  was  still, 
he  went  to  the  place  where  the  man  had  bathed,  and 
searched  with  his  hands  on  the  sand  and  grass  to  see  if  he 
had  not  dropped  a  cigar  or  stray  coin  or  two :  this  petty 
covetousness,  when  he  had  the  watch  and  diamonds,  be 
trays  the  limited  nature  of  his  intelligence.  He  found 
nothing  save  the  two  towels  which  Captain  Heathcote  had 
left  behind;  he  took  these  and  went  back  to  his  boat. 
There,  on  the  shore,  the  sound  of  a  dog's  sudden  bark 
alarmed  him ;  he  dropped  one  of  the  towels,  could  not  find 
it  among  the  reeds,  and,  without  waiting  longer,  pushed 
off  his  boat  and  paddled  up  the  stream  toward  home. 
This  singular  creature,  who  was  bold  enough  to  commit 
murder,  yet  afraid  to  touch  his  booty  for  fear  of  rousing 
a  ghost,  has  been  living  on  as  usual  all  this  time,  within  a 
mile  or  two  of  the  village  where  his  crime  was  committed, 
pursuing  his  daily  occupation  of  fishing,  and  mixing  with 
the  villagers  as  formerly,  without  betraying  his  secret  or 
attracting  toward  himself  the  least  suspicion.  His  nar 
row  but  remarkable  craft  is  shown  in  the  long  account  he 
gives  of  the  intricate  and  roundabout  ways  he  selected  for 
spending  the  money  he  had  stolen.  The  purse  itself,  to 
gether  with  the  watch,  rings,  and  towel,  he  buried  under 
a  tree  behind  his  cabin,  where  they  have  lain  undisturbed 
until  he  himself  unearthed  them,  and  delivered  them  to 
the  priest. 

4 '  For  this  notable  confession  was  obtained  by  the  in 
fluence  of  one  of  a  body  of  men  vowed  to  good  works,  a 
priest  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Croom  was  of  the 
same  faith,  after  his  debased  fashion,  and  in  spite  of  his 
weak  mind  (perhaps  on  account  of  it)  a  superstitious,  al 
most  craven,  believer. 

' '  The  presence  of  this  rarely  intelligent  and  charitable 
priest  in  Timloesville  at  this  particular  time  may  be  set 


534  ANNE. 

hands.  At  first  he  had  tried  to  induce  Miss  Teller  to  take 
it,  but  she  had  refused.  He  had  then  deeded  it  all  to  a 
hospital  for  children,  in  which  his  wife  had  occasionally 
evinced  some  interest.  Society  divided  itself  over  this 
action;  some  admired  it,  others  pronounced  it  Quixotic. 
But  the  man  who  did  it  seemed  to  care  nothing  for  either 
their  praise  or  their  blame. 

Rachel  asked  Isabel  if  she  knew  where  Anne  was. 

"The  very  question  I  asked  dear  Miss  Teller  yester 
day,"  replied  Isabel.  "She  told  me  that  Anne  had  re 
turned  to  that  island  up  in  the  Northwest  somewhere, 
where  she  used  to  live.  Then  I  asked, '  Is  she  going  to 
remain  there?'  and  Miss  Teller  answered,  'Yes,'  but  in 
such  a  tone  that  I  did  not  like  to  question  further." 

"It  has  ended,  then,  as  I  knew  it  would,"  said  Rachel. 
"In  spite  of  all  that  display  on  the  witness  stand,  you  see 
he  has  not  married  her." 

"He  could  not  marry  her  very  well  at  present,  I  sup 
pose,"  began  Isabel,  who  had  a  trace  of  feeling  in  her 
heart  for  the  young  girl. 

But  Rachel  interrupted  her.  "  I  tell  you  he  will  never 
marry  her,"  she  said,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  out  upon 
the  thin  blonde  face  of  her  companion.  For  old  Mrs. 
Bannert  was  dead  at  last,  and  her  daughter-in-law  had 
inherited  the  estate.  Two  weeks  later  she  sailed  rather 
unexpectedly  for  Europe.  But  if  unexpectedly,  not  cause 
lessly.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  hesitate ;  before  she  went 
she  had  staked  her  all,  played  her  game,  and — lost  it. 

Heathcote  had  never  been,  and  was  not  now,  a  saint; 
but  he  saw  life  with  different  eyes.  During  the  old  care 
less  days  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  himself, 
or  his  own  good  (that  is,  tolerably  good— good  enough) 
qualities.  Suddenly  he  had  found  himself  a  prisoner  be 
hind  bars,  and  half  the  world,  even  his  own  world,  believed 
him  guilty.  This  had  greatly  changed  him.  As  the  long 
days  and  nights  spent  in  prison  had  left  traces  on  his 
face  which  would  never  pass  away,  so  this  judgment  pass 
ed  upon  him  had  left  traces  on  his  heart  which  would 
not  be  outlived.  As  regarded  both  himself  and  others  he 
was  sterner. 


ANNE.  535 

Anne  had  returned  with  Miss  Lois  to  the  island.  From 
New  York  he  wrote  to  her,  "  If  I  can  not  see  you,  I  shall 
go  back  to  the  army.  My  old  life  here  is  unendurable 
now." 

No  letters  had  passed  between  them :  this  was  the  first. 
They  had  not  seen  each  other  since  that  interview  in  the 
Multomah  prison. 

She  answered  simply,  Go. 

He  went. 

More  than  two  years  passed.  Miss  Teller  journeyed 
westward  to  the  island,  and  staid  a  long  time  at  the 
church-house,  during  the  first  summer,  making  with  rev 
erential  respect  an  acquaintance  with  Miss  Lois.  During 
the  second  summer  Tita  came  home  to  make  a  visit,  as 
tonishing  her  old  companions,  and  even  her  own  sister,  by 
the  peculiar  beauty  of  her  little  face  and  figure,  and  her 
air  of  indulgent  superiority  over  everything  the  poor  isl 
and  contained.  But  she  was  happy.  She  smiled  some 
times  with  such  real  naturalness,  her  small  white  teeth 
gleaming  through  her  delicate  little  lips,  that  Anne  went 
across  and  kissed  her  out  of  pure  gladness,  gladness  that 
she  was  so  content.  Rast  had  prospered — at  least  he  was 
prospering  now  (he  failed  and  prospered  alternately) — 
and  his  little  wife  pleased  herself  with  silks  that  trailed 
behind  her  over  the  uncarpeted  halls  of  the  church-house, 
giving  majesty  (so  she  thought)  to  her  small  figure.  If 
they  did  not  give  majesty,  they  gave  an  unexpected  and 
bizarre  contrast.  Strangers  who  saw  Tita  that  summer 
went  home  and  talked  about  her,  and  never  forgot  her. 

The  two  boys  were  tall  and  strong — almost  men ;  they 
had  no  desire  to  come  eastward.  Anne  must  not  send 
them  any  more  money ;  they  did  not  need  it ;  on  the  con 
trary,  in  a  year  or  two,  when  they  had  made  their  for 
tunes  (merely  a  question  of  time),  they  intended  to  build 
for  her  a  grand  house  on  the  island,  and  bestow  upon 
her  an  income  sufficient  for  all  her  wants.  They  request 
ed  her  to  obtain  plans  for  this  mansion,  according  to  het 
taste. 

Pere  Michaux  was  at  work,  as  usual,  in  his  water  parish. 


534  ANNE, 

hands.  At  first  he  had  tried  to  induce  Miss  Teller  to  take 
it,  but  she  had  refused.  He  had  then  deeded  it  all  to  a 
hospital  for  children,  in  which  his  wife  had  occasionally 
evinced  some  interest.  Society  divided  itself  over  this 
action ;  some  admired  it,  others  pronounced  it  Quixotic. 
But  the  man  who  did  it  seemed  to  care  nothing  for  either 
their  praise  or  their  blame. 

Rachel  asked  Isabel  if  she  knew  where  Anne  was. 

"The  very  question  I  asked  dear  Miss  Teller  yester 
day,"  replied  Isabel.  "She  told  me  that  Anne  had  re 
turned  to  that  island  up  in  the  Northwest  somewhere, 
where  she  used  to  live.  Then  I  asked, 'Is  she  going  to 
remain  there?'  and  Miss  Teller  answered,  'Yes,'  but  in 
such  a  tone  that  I  did  not  like  to  question  further. " 

"It  has  ended,  then,  as  I  knew  it  would,"  said  Rachel. 
"In  spite  of  all  that  display  on  the  witness  stand,  you  see 
he  has  not  married  her." 

* '  He  could  not  marry  her  very  well  at  present,  I  sup 
pose,"  began  Isabel,  who  had  a  trace  of  feeling  in  her 
heart  for  the  young  girl. 

But  Rachel  interrupted  her.  "  I  tell  you  he  will  never 
marry  her,"  she  said,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  out  upon 
the  thin  blonde  face  of  her  companion.  For  old  Mrs. 
Bannert  was  dead  at  last,  and  her  daughter-in-law  had 
inherited  the  estate.  Two  weeks  later  she  sailed  rather 
unexpectedly  for  Europe.  But  if  unexpectedly,  not  cause 
lessly.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  hesitate ;  before  she  went 
she  had  staked  her  all,  played  her  game,  and — lost  it. 

Heathcote  had  never  been,  and  was  not  now,  a  saint; 
but  he  saw  life  with  different  eyes.  During  the  old  care 
less  days  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  himself, 
or  his  own  good  (that  is,  tolerably  good — good  enough) 
qualities.  Suddenly  he  had  found  himself  a  prisoner  be 
hind  bars,  and  half  the  world,  even  his  own  world,  believed 
him  guilty.  This  had  greatly  changed  him.  As  the  long 
days  and  nights  spent  in  prison  had  left  traces  on  his 
face  which  would  never  pass  away,  so  this  judgment  pass 
ed  upon  him  had  left  traces  on  his  heart  which  would 
not  be  outlived.  As  regarded  both  himself  and  others  he 
was  sterner. 


ANNE.  535 

Anne  had  returned  with  Miss  Lois  to  the  island.  From 
New  York  he  wrote  to  her,  "  If  I  can  not  see  you,  I  shall 
go  back  to  the  army.  My  old  life  here  is  unendurable 
now." 

No  letters  had  passed  between  them :  this  was  the  first. 
They  had  not  seen  each  other  since  that  interview  in  the 
Multomah  prison. 

She  answered  simply,  Go. 

He  went. 

More  than  two  years  passed.  Miss  Teller  journeyed 
westward  to  the  island,  and  staid  a  long  time  at  the 
church-house,  during  the  first  summer,  making  with  rev 
erential  respect  an  acquaintance  with  Miss  Lois.  During 
the  second  summer  Tita  came  home  to  make  a  visit,  as 
tonishing  her  old  companions,  and  even  her  own  sister,  by 
the  peculiar  beauty  of  her  little  face  and  figure,  and  her 
air  of  indulgent  superiority  over  everything  the  poor  isl 
and  contained.  But  she  was  happy.  She  smiled  some 
times  with  such  real  naturalness,  her  small  white  teeth 
gleaming  through  her  delicate  little  lips,  that  Anne  went 
across  and  kissed  her  out  of  pure  gladness,  gladness  that 
she  was  so  content.  Rast  had  prospered — at  least  he  was 
prospering  now  (he  failed  and  prospered  alternately) — 
and  his  little  wife  pleased  herself  with  silks  that  trailed 
behind  her  over  the  uncarpeted  halls  of  the  church-house, 
giving  majesty  (so  she  thought)  to  her  small  figure.  If 
they  did  not  give  majesty,  they  gave  an  unexpected  and 
bizarre  contrast.  Strangers  who  saw  Tita  that  summer 
went  home  and  talked  about  her,  and  never  forgot  her. 

The  two  boys  were  tall  and  strong — almost  men ;  they 
had  no  desire  to  come  eastward.  Anne  must  not  send 
them  any  more  money ;  they  did  not  need  it ;  on  the  con 
trary,  in  a  year  or  two,  when  they  had  made  their  for 
tunes  (merely  a  question  of  time),  they  intended  to  build 
for  her  a  grand  house  on  the  island,  and  bestow  upon 
her  an  income  sufficient  for  all  her  wants.  They  request 
ed  her  to  obtain  plans  for  this  mansion,  according  to  heir 
taste. 

Pere  Michaux  was  at  work,  as  usual,  in  his  water  parish. 


536  ANNE. 

He  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  commutation  of  the 
death  sentence,  in  Groom's  case,  to  imprisonment  for  a 
term  of  years,  the  criminal's  mental  weakness  being  the 
plea.  But  he  considered  the  prisoner  his  especial  charge, 
and  never  lost  sight  of  him.  Such  solace  and  instruction 
as  Groom  was  capable  of  receiving  were  constantly  giv 
en,  if  not  by  the  priest  himself,  then  by  his  influence; 
and  this  protection  was  continued  long  after  the  wise, 
kind  old  man  had  passed  away. 

Jeanne- Ar man de  returned  from  Europe,  and  entered 
into  happy  possession  of  the  half-house,  as  it  stood,  re 
furnished  by  the  lavish  hand  of  Gregory  Dexter. 

And  Dexter  ?  During  the  last  year  of  the  war  he  went 
down  to  the  front,  on  business  connected  with  a  pro 
posed  exchange  of  prisoners.  Here,  unexpectedly,  one 
day  he  came  upon  Ward  Heathcote,  now  in  command  of 
a  regiment. 

Golonel  Heathcote  was  not  especially  known  beyond 
his  own  division ;  in  it,  he  was  considered  a  good  officer, 
cool,  determined,  and  if  distinguished  at  all,  distinguish 
ed  for  rigidly  obeying  his  orders,  whatever  they  might 
be.  It  was  related  of  him  that  once  having  been  ordered 
to  take  his  men  up  Little  Reedy  Run,  when  Big  Reedy 
was  plainly  meant — Little  Reedy,  as  everybody  knew, 
being  within  the  lines  of  the  enemy,  he  calmly  went  up 
Little  Reedy  with  his  regiment.  The  enemy,  startled 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  seven  hundred  men  among 
their  seven  thousand,  supposed  of  course  that  seventy 
thousand  must  be  behind,  and  retreated  in  haste,  a  mile 
or  two,  before  they  discovered  their  error.  The  seven 
hundred,  meanwhile,  being  wildly  recalled  by  a  dozen 
messengers,  came  back,  with  much  camp  equipage  and 
other  booty,  together  with  a  few  shot  in  their  bodies,  sent 
by  the  returning  and  indignant  Confederates,  one  of  the 
balls  being  in  the  shoulder  of  the  calm  colonel  himself. 

When  Dexter  came  upon  Heathcote,  a  flush  rose  in  his 
face.  He  did  not  hesitate,  however,  but  walked  directly 
up  to  the  soldier.  ' '  Will  you  step  aside  with  me  a  mo 
ment  ?"  he  said.  "I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Heathcote,  too,  had  recognized  his  former  companion 


ANNE.  537 

at  a  glance.  The  two  men  walked  together  beyond  ear 
shot;  then  they  paused. 

But  Dexter's  fluency  had  deserted  him.  "You  know  ?" 
he  said. 

"Yes." 

"  It  does  not  make  it  any  better,  I  fear,  to  say  that  my 
belief  was  an  honest  one." 

' '  You  were  not  alone ;  there  were  others  who  thought 
as  you  did.  I  care  little  about  it  now." 

"Still,  I — I  wish  to  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dexter, 
bringing  out  the  words  with  an  effort.  Then,  having  ac 
complished  his  task,  he  paused.  "You  are  a  more  fortu 
nate  man  than  I  am — than  I  have  ever  been, "he  added, 
gloomily.  "But  that  does  not  lighten  my  mistake." 

"Think  no  more  of  it,"  answered  Heathcote.  "I  as 
sure  you,  it  is  to  me  a  matter  of  not  the  slightest  conse 
quence." 

The  words  were  double-edged,  but  Dexter  bore  them  in 
silence.  They  shook  hands,  and  separated,  nor  did  they 
meet  again  for  many  years. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"  Love  is  strong  as  death.  Many  waters  can  not  quench  love,  neither 
can  floods  drown  it." — TJie  Proverbs  of  Solomon. 

THE  war  was  over  at  last ;  peace  was  declared.  The  last 
review  had  been  held,  and  the  last  volunteer  had  gone 
home. 

Two  persons  were  standing  on  the  old  observatory  floor, 
at  the  highest  point  of  the  island,  looking  at  the  little 
village  below,  the  sparkling  Straits,  and  the  blue  line  of 
land  in  the  distant  north.  At  least  Anne  was  looking  at 
them.  But  her  lover  was  looking  at  her. 

"It  is  enough  to  repay  even  the  long  silence  of  those 
long  years, "he  said. 

And  others  might  have  agreed  with  him.     For  it  was  a 


538  ANNE. 

woman  exquisitely  and  richly  beautiful  whom  he  held  in 
his  arms,  whose  tremulous  lips  he  kissed  at  his  pleasure, 
until,  forgetting  the  landscape,  she  turned  to  him  with  a 
clinging  movement,  and  hid  her  face  upon  his  breast. 
Her  heart,  her  life,  her  being,  were  all  his,  and  he  knew 
it.  She  loved  him  intensely. 

"Something  may  be  allowed  to  a  starved  man,"  he  had 
said,  the  first  time  they  were  alone  together  after  his  ar 
rival,  his  eyes  dwelling  fondly  011  her  sweet  face.  "Do 
not  be  careful  any  more,  Anne;  show  me  that  you  love 
me.  I  have  suffered,  suffered,  suffered,  since  those  old 
days  at  Caryl's. " 

On  this  June  afternoon  they  lingered  on  the  height  un 
til  the  sun  sank  low  in  the  west. 

"We  must  go,  Ward." 

"Wait  until  it  is  out  of  sight." 

They  waited  in  silence  until  the  gold  rim  disappeared. 
Then  they  turned  to  each  other. 

"Your  last  day  alone;  to-morrow  you  will  be  my  wife. 
Do  you  remember  when  I  asked  you  whether  the  whole 
world  would  not  be  well  lost  to  us  if  we  could  but  have 
love  and  each  other  ?  We  had  love,  but  the  rest  was  de 
nied.  Now  we  have  that  also.  .  .  .  Anne,  I  was,  and  am 
still,  an  idle,  selfish  fellow.  Whatever  change  there  has 
been  or  will  be  is  owing  to  you.  For  you  love  me  so 
much,  my  darling,  that  you  exalt  me,  and  I  for  very  shame 
try  to  live  up  to  it." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  saw  the  rare  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

Then  he  brushed  them  away,  smiled,  and  offered  his 
arm.  "  Shall  we  go  down  now,  Mrs.  Heathcote  ?" 

They  were  married  the  next  morning  in  the  little  mili 
tary  chapel.  Mrs.  Rankm  was  at  the  fort  again,  Lieuten 
ant  Rankin  being  major  and  in  command.  The  other 
poor  wives  who  had  been  her  companions  there  were 
widows  now  ;  the  battle-fields  round  Richmond  were 
drawn  with  lines  of  fire  upon  their  hearts  forever.  Mrs. 
Rankin,  though  but  just  arrived,  left  her  household  gods 
unpacked  to  decorate  the  chapel  with  wreaths  of  the  early 
green.  Miss  Teller  and  Miss  Lois,  both  in  such  excitement 


ANNE.  539 

that  they  spoke  incoherently,  yet  seemed  to  understand 
each  other  nevertheless,  superintended  the  preparations  at 
the  church-house. 

As  a  wedding  gift,  Gregory  Dexter  sent  the  same  pack 
age  Anne  had  once  returned  to  him ;  the  only  addition 
was  a  star  for  the  hair,  set  with  diamonds. 

"  I  said  that  perhaps  you  would  accept  these  some  time" 
(he  wrote).  "Will  you  accept  them  now?  They  were 
bought  for  you.  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  think  that 
you  are  wearing  them.  I  have  no  right  to  offer  you  a  ring ; 
but  the  diamond,  in  some  shape,  I  must  give  you,  as  the 
one  imperishable  stone.  With  unchanging  regard, 

"GREGORY  DEXTER." 

"You  have  no  objection?"  said  Anne,  with  a  slight 
hesitation  in  her  voice. 

' ' No, "  answered  Heathcote,  carelessly ;  "it  would  hurt 
him  too  much  if  we  returned  them.  But  what  a  heavily 
gorgeous  taste  he  has !  Diamonds,  sables,  and  an  India 
shawl !" 

He  had  never  been  jealous  of  Dexter.  Why  should 
he  be  jealous  now  ? 

The  new  chaplain  read  the  marriage  service,  but  Pere 
Michaux  gave  the  bride  away.  Not  only  the  whole  vil 
lage  was  present,  but  the  whole  water  parish  also,  if  not 
within  the  chapel,  then  without.  People  had  begun  to 
cross  from  the  mainland  and  islands  at  dawn,  so  as  to  be 
in  time ;  the  Straits  were  covered  by  a  small  fleet.  Miss 
Teller  was  the  only  stranger,  save  the  bridegroom  him 
self. 

Anne  was  dressed  simply  in  soft  white ;  she  wore  no  or 
naments.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heathcote  would  not  be  rich ;  on 
the  contrary,  they  would  begin  their  married  life  with  a 
straitened  income,  that  is,  in  worldly  wealth.  In  youth, 
beauty,  and  a  love  so  great  that  it  could  not  be  measured 
in  words,  the  bridegroom  was  richer  than  the  proudest 
king.  As  for  the  bride,  one  look  in  her  eyes  was  enough. 

"I,  Anne,  take  thee,  Ward,  to  my  wedded  husband,  to 
have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better  for 


540  ANNE. 

worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health, 
to  love,  cherish,  and  to  ohey,  till  death  us  do  part,  ac 
cording  to  God's  holy  ordinance ;  and  thereto  I  give  thee 
my  troth." 

" Anne, "said  Miss  Teller,  drawing  the  new-made  wife 
aside,  ' '  I  want  to  whisper  something.  I  will  not  tell 
Ward — men  are  different.  But  I  want  you  to  know  that 
Helen's  grave  is  covered  with  heliotrope  in  Greenwood 
this  morning,  and  that  I  am  sure  she  knows  all,  and  is 
glad." 

THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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